TALES AND SKETCHES. 



orhs h^ i^t uumt %xxi^ax. 



-ooKKo"- 



THE TESTIMONY OF THE ROCKS. 

THE FOOTPRINTS OF THE CREATOR. 

THE CRUISE OF THE BETSEY. 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND AND ITS PEOPLE. 

THE OLD RED SANDSTONE. 

MY SCHOOLS AND SCHOOLMASTERS. 

THE HEADSHIP OF CHRIST. 

SKETCH-BOOK OF POPULAR GEOLOGY. 

ESSAYS, 

HISTORICAL, BIOGRAPHICAL, POLITICAL, SOCIAL, 
LITERARY, AND SCIENTIFIC. 



TALES AND SKETCHES. • 



BY 

HUGH MILLEE, 

11.- 

authok of 

'the old red sandstone," "my schools and schoolmasters/ 

"the testimony of the rocks," etc. 



EDITED, WITH A PREFACE, 

BY 

MRS. MILLER. 



BOSTON: 

aOULD AND LINCOLN, 

59 WASHINGTON STEEBT. 

NEW YORK: SHELDON AND COMPANY. 
CINCINNATI: GEORGE S. BLANCHARD. 

1863. 



PREFACE. 



The following " Tales and Sketches " were written at an early 
period of the author's career, during the first years of his married 
life, before he had attempted to carry any part of the world on his 
shoulders in the shape of a public newspaper, and found it by no 
means a comfortable burden. Yet possibly the period earlier still, 
when he produced his " Scenes and Legends," had been more favor- 
able for a kind of writing which required in any measure the exer- 
cise of the imagination. The change to him was very great, from a 
life of constant employment in the open air, amid the sights and 
sounds of nature, to " the teasing monotony of one which tasked his 
intellectual powers without exercising them." Hence, partly, it may 
be imagined, the intensity of his sympathy with the poet Ferguson. 
The greater number of these Tales were composed literally over the 
midnight lamp, after returning late in the evening from a long day's 
work over the ledger and the balance-sheet. Tired though he was, 

his mind could not stagnate — he rnxxst write. I do not mention these 
1* 



VI PREFACE. 

circumstances at all by way of apology. It has struck me, in- 
deed, that the Tales are nearly all of a pensive or tragical cast, and 
that in congenial circumstances they might have had a more, joyous 
and elastic tone, in keeping with a healthier condition of the ner- 
vous system. Yet their defects must undoubtedly belong to the 
mind of their author. I am far from being under the delusion that 
he was, or was ever destined to be, a Walter Scott or Charles 
Dickens. The faculties of plot and drama, which find their scope 
in the story and the novel, were among the weakest, instead of the 
strongest, of his powers. Yet I am deceived if the lovers and stu- 
dents of Hugh Miller's Works will not find in the "Tales and 
Sketches " some matter of special interest. In the first three there 
are, I think, glimpses into his own inner life, such as he, witlrmost 
men of reserved and dignified character, would choose rather to 
personify in another than to make a parade of in their own person, 
when coming forward avowedly to write of themselves. And, then, 
if he could have held a conversation with Robert Burns, so that all 
the world might hear, I think there are few who would not have 
listened with some curiosity. In his " Recollections of Burns " we 
have his own side of such conversation ; for it seems evident that it 
is himself that he has set to travelling and talking in the person of 
Mr. Lindsay. 

But of Bums's share in the dialogue the reader is the best judge. 
Some may hold that he is too like Hugh Miller himself, — too phil- 
osophic in idea, and too pure in sentiment. In regard to this, we 



PREFACE. VII 

can only remind such that Burns's prose was not Hke his poetry, 
nor his ideal like his actual life. 

Unquestionably my husband had a very strong sympathy with 
many points in the character of Burns. His thorough integrity ; 
his noble independence, which disdained to place his honest opinions 
at the mercy of any man or set of men ; his refusal to barter his 
avowal of the worth and dignity of man for the smiles and patron- 
age of the great, even after he had tasted the sweets of their society, 
which is a very different matter from such avowal before that time, 
if any one will fairly think of it, — all this, with the acknowledged 
sovereignty of the greater genius, made an irresistible bond of broth- 
erhood between Miller and Burns. But to the grosser traits of the 
poet's character my husband's eyes were perfectly open ; and grieved 
indeed should I be if it could for a moment be supposed that he lent 
the weight of his own purer moral character to the failings, and 
worse than failings, of the other. Over these he mourned, he 
grieved. I believe he would at any time have given the life of his 
body for the life of his brother's soul. Above all, he deplored that 
the all-prevaiUng power of Christian love was never brought to 
bear on the heart of this greatest of Scotland's sons. If Thomas 
Chalmers had been in the place of Russell, who knows what might 
have been ? But, doubtless, God in his providence had wise pur- 
poses to serve. It is often by such instruments that he scourges and 
purifies his church. For let us not forget, that scenes such as are 
depicted in the " Holy Fair," however painful to our better feelings. 



VIII PREFACE. 

were strictly and literally true. This I have myself heard from an 
eye-witness, who could not have been swayed by any leanings to- 
wards the anti-puritan side ; and, doubtless, many others are aware 
of testimony on the same side of equal weight. 

We may hope that the time is passing away when the more excep- 
tionable parts of Burns's character and writings are capable of 
working mischief, at least among the higher and middle classes. It 
is cause of thankfulness that in regard to such, and with him as with 
others, there is a sort of purifying process going on, which leaves the 
higher and finer elements of genius to float buoyantly, and fulfil 
their own destiny in the universal plan, while the grosser are left to 
sink like lead in the mighty waters. Thus it is in those portions of 
society already refined and elevated. But there is yet a portion of 
the lower strata where midnight orgies continue to prevail, and 
where every idea of pleasure is connected with libertinism and the 
bottle ; and there the worst productions of Burns are no doubt still 
rife, and working as a deadly poison. Even to a superior class of 
working-men, who are halting between two opinions, there is danger 
from the very mixture of good and evil in the character and writings 
of the poet. They cannot forget that he who wrote 

" The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
Yet still we '11 taste the barley bree," 
wrote likewise the immortal song, 

" A man 's a man for a' that " ; 
and they determine, or are in danger of determining, to follow the ob- 



PREF AC E 



IX' 



ject of their worship with no halting step. Doubtless political creed 
and the accidents of birth stUl color the individual estimate of Burns 
and his writings. It is but of late that we have seen society torn, on 
occasion of the centenary of the poet, by conflicting opinion as to 
the propriety of observing it ; and many would fain have it supposed 
that the religious and anti-religious world were ranged on opposite 
sides. But it was not so. There were thoroughly good and religious 
men, self-made, who could not forget that Burns had been the cham- 
pion of their order, and had helped to win for them respect by the 
power of his genius ; while there were others —religious men of old 
family — who could remember nothing but his faults. I remember 
spending one or two evenings about that time in the society of a 
weU-bom, earnestly religious, and highly estimable gentleman, who 
reprobated Burns, and scoffed at the idea that a man could be a 
man for a' that. He might belong to a limited class ; for weU I 
know that among peers there are as ardent admirers of Bums as 
among peasants. AU I would say is, that even religious feelings 
may take edge and bitterness from other causes. But to the other 
class — those who from loyalty and gratitude are apt to follow Burns 
too far — well I know that my husband would have said, « Receive 
aU genius as the gift of God, but never let it be to you as God. It 
ought never to supersede the exercise of your own moral sense, 
nor can it ever take the place of the only infallible guide, the Word 
of God." 

But I beg the reader's pardon for digressing thus, when I out^ht to 



X PREFACE. 

be pursuing the proper business of a preface, which is, to state any 
explanatory circumstances that may be necessary in connection with 
the work in hand. 

The *' Recollections of Ferguson " are exquisitely painful — so 
much so that I would fain have begim with something brighter ; but 
these two contributions being the most important, and likewise the 
first in order of a series, they seemed to fall into the beginning as 
their natural place. I have gone over the Life of Ferguson, which 
the reader may do for himself, to see whether there is any exagger- 
ation in the " Recollections." I find them all perfectly faithful to 
the facts. The neglected bard, the stone ceU, the straw pallet, the 
stone p^d for by a brother bard out of his own straitened means 
are not flattering to the " Embro' Gentry" ; but amid a great deal 
of flattery, a little truth Is worth remembering. On the other hand 
it rejoices one to think that Ferguson's death-bed, on the heaven- 
ward side, was not dark. The returning reason, the comforts of the 
Word of Life, are glimpses of God's providence and grace that show 
gloriously amid the otherwise outer darkness of those depths. 

The sort of literature of superstition revived or retained In " The 
Lykewake," there are a great many good people who think the 
world would be better without. 

It chanced to me some three years ago, when residing in a sea- 
bathing village, and sitting one day on a green turf-bank overlook- 
ing the sea, to hear a conversation in which this point was brought 
very prominently forward. A party consisting of a number of 



PREFACE. XI 

young people, accompanied by their papa, a young French lady, 
who was either governess or friend, and a gentleman in the garb of 
a clergyman, either friend or tutor, seated themselves very near me ; 
and it was proposed by the elder gentleman that a series of stories 
should be told for the amusement and edification of the young people. 
A set of stories and anecdotes were accordingly begun, and very 
pleasingly told, chiefly by the clergyman, friend or tutor. Among 
others was a fairy tale entitled " Green Sleeves," to which the name 
of Hugh Miller was appended, and which evoked great applause 
from the younger members of the party, but regarding which the 
verdict of papa, very emphatically delivered, was, " / approve of 
faries neither in green sleeves nor white sleeves. However, " — after 
a pause, during which he seemed to be revolving in his mind any 
possible use for the like absurdities, — " they may serve to show us 
the blessings of the more enlightened times in which we live, when 
schools for the young, and sciences for aU ages, have banished such 
things from the world." So, with this utilitarian view of the subject 
let us rest satisfied, unless we are of. those who, feeling that the hu- 
man mind is a harp of many strings, believe that it is none the 
worse for having the music of even its minor chords awakened at 
times by a skilful hand. 

I am unable to say whether " Bill Whyte " be a real story, ever 
narrated by a bona fide tinker of the name, or no. I am rather 
inclined to think that it is not, because I recognize in it several 
incidents drawn from " Uncle Sandy's " Experiences in Egypt, such 



Xn PREFACE. 

as the hovering of the flight of birds, scared and terrified, over the 
smoke and noise of battle, the encampment in the midst of a host of 
Turks' bones, etc. 

With the " Young Surgeon " I was myself acquainted. It is a 
sketch strictly true. 

" The Story of the Scotch Merchant of the Eighteenth Century," 
which also is a true story, was written originally at the request of 
a near relative of Mr. Forsyth, for private circulation among a 
few friends, and is now for the first time given to the public by the 
kind consent of the surviving relatives. 



CONTENTS. 



I. 

RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON". 

FAoa 
Chapter I. — The Fellow-Stttdent 17 

Chapter II.— The Convivial Party 24 

Chapter III. — Life's Shadowy Morning . . ... . .30 

Chapter IV. — A Surprise and Joyful News 39 

Chapter V. — An Interior View 41 

Chapter VI. — Gathering Clouds . . 63 

Chapter VTI. — The Ketreat 69 

Chapter Vm.— The Final Scene 62 



II. 

RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 

Chapter I. — The Congenial Stranger 6T 

Chapter IT. —The Trio — A Scottish Scene 78 

Chapter in. — Burns and Mary Campbell 86 

2 



XIV CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Chapter IV. — The Home and the Fathbb ob" Bubnb ... 94 

Chapter V. — Burns and the Church 103 

Chapter VI. —An Evening at Mossgiel 108 

Chapter vn. — The Poet appears 115 

Chapter VIII. —The Last Interview 121 



III. 

THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 

Chapter I. — The Fisherman, William Stewart, Lillias . 128 

Chapter n. — The Sequel 144 



IV. 

THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 

Chapter I. — The Cavern Scene 165 

Chapter II. — Helen's Vision 164 



V. 

THE LTKEWAKE. 

Chapter I. — Introduction 176 

Chapter n.— The Story OP Elspat M'CULLOCH . ... 179 



CONTENTS. XV 

PAGE 

Chapter ni. — Story op Donald Gair 185 

Chapter IV. — The Doomed Rider 191 

Chapter V. — Story op Fairbttrn's Ghost 196 

Chapter VI. — The Land Factor 201 

Chapter VII. — The Mealmonger 206 



YI. 

BILL WHYTE. 



K?fj .ZI:T 



Chapter I. — Early History, etc 210 

Chapter II. — The Denoubmhnt 233 



VII. 

THE YOUNG SURGEON; 
Or, The Fowbb ov Bbliqion 244 



VIII. 

GEORGE ROSS, THE SCOTCH AGENT; 
Or, Tbb Fortckes of a Reforsier . .262 



XVI CONTENTS. 

IX. 

M'CULLOCH THE MECHANTCIAIS'; 



PAOK 

Ob, The Stokt ob* a Fabmeb's Bot . 274 



X. 

THE SCOTCH MERCHANT OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 

Chapter I. — Eaelt Advantages 283 

Chapter II. — Enterprise and Thrift 289 

Chapter m. — Manners op the Times ....... 297 

Chapter IV. — State op Societt 803 

Chapter V.— The Kelp-burners 810 

Chapter VI. — Shipping and Sailors 817 

Ceapteb vn. — Personal Traits 828 

Chapter Vm. — Schemes op Improvement 831 

Chapter IX. —Sports and Jokes . . .* 386 

Chapter X. — Hospitality . 342 

Chapter XT. —Changes and Improvements 348 

Chapteb XII.— The Closing Scenes 360 



TALES AND SKETCHES. 



I. 

RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 

CHAPTER I. 



Of Ferguson, the bauld and slee. 

Burns. 



I HAVE, I believe, as little of the egotist in my compo- 
sition as most men ; noi' would I deem the story of my 
life, though by no means unvaried by incident, of interest 
enough to repay the trouble of either writing or perusing 
it were it the story of my one life only ; but, though an 
obscure man myself, I have been singularly foi'tunate in 
my friends. The party-colored tissue of my recollec- 
tions is strangely interwoven, if I may so speak, with 
pieces of the domestic history of men whose names have 
become as familiar to our ears as that of our country 
itself; and I have been induced to struggle with the 
delicacy which renders one unwilling to speak much of 
one's self, and to overcome the dread of exertion natural 
to a period of life greatly advanced, through a desire of 
preserving to my countrymen a few notices, which would 
otherwise be lost to them, of two of their greatest favor- 
2* 



18 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

ites. I could once reckon among my dearest and most 
familiar friends, Robert Burns and Robert Ferguson. 

It is now rather more than sixty years since I studied 
for a few weeks at the University of St. Andrews. I was 
the son of very poor parents, who resided in a seaport 
town on the west coast of Scotland. My father was a 
house-carpenter, — a quiet, serious man, of industrious 
habits and great simplicity of character, but miserably 
depressed in his circumstances through a sickly habit of 
body. My mother. was a warm-hearted, excellent woman, 
endowed with no ordinary share of shrewd good sense 
and sound feeling, and indefatigable in her exertions for 
my father and the family. I was taught to read, at a very 
early age, by an old woman in the neighborhood, — such 
a person as Shenstone describes in his " Schoolmistress," 
— and, being naturally of a reflective turn, I had begun, 
long ere I had attained my tenth year, to derive almost 
my sole amusement from books. I read incessantly ; and, 
after exhausting the shelves of all the neighbors, and 
reading every variety of work that fell in my way, — from 
the "Pilgrim's Progress" of Bunyan, and the "Gospel 
Sonnets" of Erskine, to a " Treatise on Fortification" by 
Vauban, and the " History of the Heavens" by the Abb^ 
Pluche, — I would have pined away for lack of my ac- 
customed exercise, had not a benevolent baronet in the 
i.eighborhood, for whom my father occasionally wrought, 
taken a flmcy to me, and thrown open to my perusal a 
large and well-selected library. Nor did his kindness 
terminate until, after having secured to me all of learning 
that the parish afforded, he had settled me, now in my 
seventeenth year, at the Univei'sity. 

Youth is the season of warm friendships and romantic 
wishes and hopes. We say of the child in its first at- 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 19 

tempts to totter along the wall, or when it has first 
learned to rise beside its mother's knee, that it is yet too 
weak to stand alone ; and we may employ the same lan- 
guage in describing a young and ardent mind. It is, like 
the child, too weak to stand alone, and anxiously seeks 
out some kindred mind on which to lean. I had had my 
intimates at school, who, though of no very superior cast, 
had served me, if I may so speak, as resting-places when 
wearied with my studies, or when I had exhausted my 
lighter reading ; and now, at St. Andrews, where I knew 
no one, I began to experience the unhappiness of an un- 
satisfied sociality. My school-fellows were mostly stiff, 
illiterate lads, who, with a little bad Latin and worse 
Greek, plumed themselves mightily on their scholarship, 
and I had little inducement to form any intimacies among 
them ; for of all men the ignorant scholar is the least 
amusing. Among the students of the i;pper classes, how- 
ever, there was at least one individual with whom I 
longed to be acquainted. He wns apparently much about 
my own age, rather below than above the middle size, 
and rather delicately than robustly formed ; but I have 
rarely seen a more elegant figure or more interesting face. 
His features were small, and there was what might per- 
haps be deemed a too feminine delicacy in the whole 
contour ; but there was a broad and very high expansion 
of forehead, which, even in those days, when we were ac- 
quainted with only the phrenology taught by Plato, might 
be regarded as the index of a capacious and powerful 
mind ; and the brilliant light of his large black eyes 
seemed to give earnest of its activity. 

" "Who, in the name of wonder, is that ? " I inquired 
of a class-fellow, as this interesting-looking young man 
passed me for the first time. 



20 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

" A clever but very unsettled fellow from Edinburgh," 
replied the lad ; " a capital linguist, for he gained our 
first bursary three years ago ; but our Professor says he 
is certain he will never do any good. He cares nothing 
for the company of scholars like himself, and employs 
himself — though he excels, I believe, in English com- 
position — in writing vulgar Scotch rhymes, like Allan 
Ramsay. His name is Robert Ferguson." 

I felt from this moment a strong desire to rank among 
the friends of one who cared nothing for the company of 
such men as my class-fellow, and who, though acquainted 
with the literature of England and Rome, could dwell 
with interest on the simple poetry of his native country. 

There is no place in the neighborhood of St. Andrews 
where a leisure hour may be spent more agreeably than 
among the ruins of the cathedral. I was not slow in 
discovering the eligibilities of the spot, and it soon be- 
came one of my favorite haunts. One evening, a few 
weeks after I had entered on my course at college, 1 had 
seated myself among the ruins, in a little ivied nook 
fronting the setting sun, and was deeply engaged with 
the melancholy Jaques in the forest of Ardennes, when, 
on hearing a light footstep, I looked up, and saw the Ed- 
inburgh student, whose appearance had so interested me, 
not four yards away. He was busied with his pencil and 
his tablets, and muttering, as he went, in a half-audible 
voice, what, from the inflection of the tones, seemed to be 
verse. On seeing me, he started, and apologizing in a 
few hurried but courteous words for what he termed the 
involuntary intrusion, would have passed, but, on my 
rising and stepping up to him, he stood. 

" I am afraid, Mr. Ferguson," I said, ' tis I who owe you 
an apology ; the ruins have long been yours, and I am but 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 21 

an intruder. But you must pardon me ; I have often 
heard of them in the west, where they are hallowed, even 
more than they are here, from their connection with the 
history of some of our noblest Reformers ; and, besides, 
I see no place in the neighborhood where Shakspeare can 
be read to more advantage." 

"Ah," said he, taking the volume out of my hand, 
" a reader of Shakspeare and an admirer of Knox ! I 
question whether the heresiarch and the poet had much 
in common." 

"Nay, now, Mr. Ferguson," I replied, "you are too 
true a Scot to question that. They had much, very much, 
in common. Knox was no rude Jack Cade, but a great 
and powerful-minded man ; decidedly as much so as any 
of the noble conceptions of the dramatist, his Caesars, 
Brutuses, or Othellos. Buchanan could have told you 
that he had even much of the spirit of the poet in him, 
and wanted only the art. And just remember how Milton 
speaks of him in his ' Areopagitica.' Had the poet of 
* Paradise Lost ' thought regarding him as it has become 
fashionable to think and speak now, he would hardly have 
apostrophized him as JShox, the reformer of a nation, — 
a great man animated hy the Spirit of GodP 

" Pardon me," said the young man ; "I am little ac- 
quainted with the prose writings of Milton, and have, 
indeed, picked up most of my opinions of Knox at second- 
hand. But I have read his merry account of the murder 
of Beaton, and found nothing to alter my preconceived 
notions of him from either the matter or manner of the 
narrative. Now that I think of it, however, my opinion 
of Bacon would be no very adequate one were it formed 
solely from the extract of his history of Henry VII. given 



22 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

by Kames in his late publication. "Will you not extend 
your walk ? " 

We quitted the ruins together, and went sauntering 
along the shore. There was a rich sunset glow on the 
water, and the hills that rise on the opposite side of the 
Frith stretched their undulating line of azure under a 
gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold. My companion 
pointed to the scene, "These glorious clouds," he said, 
"are but wreaths of vapor, and these lovely hills accu- 
mulations of earth and stone. And it is thus with all the 
past, — with the past of our own little historic?, that 
borrows so much of its golden beauty from the medium 
through which we survey it ; with the past too of all 
history. There is poetry in the remote ; the bleak hill 
seems a darker firmament, and the chill wreath of vapor a 
river of fire. And you, Sir, seem to have contemplated 
the history of our stern Reformers through this poetical 
medium, till you forget that the poetry was not in them, 
but in that through which you surveyed them." 

" Ah, Mr. Ferguson," I replied, " you must permit me 
to make a distinction. I acquiesce fully in the justice of 
your remark : the analogy, too, is nice and striking ; but 
I would fain carry it a little further. Every eye can see 
the beauty of the remote ; but there is beauty in the near, 
an interest at least, which every eye cannot see. Each 
of the thousand little plants that spring up at our feet has 
an interest and beauty to the botanist ; the mineralogist 
would find something to engage him in every little stone. 
And it is thus with the poetry of life ; all have a sense of 
it in the remote and the distant, but it is only the men 
who stand high in the art, its men of profound science, 
that can discover it in the near. The mediocre poet shares 
but the commoner gift, and so he seeks his themes in ages 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 23 

or countries far removed from his own ; whilst the man of 
nobler powers, knowing that all nature is instinct with 
poetry, seeks and finds it in the men and scenes in his 
immediate neighborhood. As to our Reformers" — 

" Pardon me," said the young poet; "the remark strikes 
me, and, ere we lose it in something else, I must furnish 
you with an illustration. There is an acquaintance of 
mine, a lad much about my own age, greatly addicted to 
the study of poetry. He has been making verses all his 
life-long : he began ere he had learned to write them even ; 
and his judgment has been gradually overgrowing his 
earlier compositions, as you see the advancing tide rising 
on the beach, and obliterating the prints on the sand. 
Now, I have observed that in all his earlier compositions 
he went far from home ; he could not attempt a pastoral 
without first transporting himself to the vales of Arcadia, 
or an ode to Pity or Hope without losing the warm, living 
sentiment in the dead, cold personification of the Greek. 
The Hope and Pity he addressed were, not the undying 
attendants of human nature, but the shadowy spectres of 
a remote age. Now, however, I feel .that a change has 
come over me. I seek for poetry among the fields and 
cottages of my own land. I — a — a — the friend of 
whom I speak — But I interrupted your remark on the 
Reformers." 

" Nay," I replied, " if you go on so, I would much 
rather listen than speak. I only meant to say that the 
Knoxes and Melvilles of our country have been robbed of 
the admiration and sympathy of many a kindred sj^irit, by 
the strangely erroneous notions that have been abroad 
regarding them for at least the last two ages. Knox, I 
am convinced, would have been as great as Jeremy Taylor, 
if not even greater." 



24 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

We sauntered along the shore till the evening had 
darkened into night, lost in an agreeable interchange of 
thought. " Ah ! " at length exclaimed my companion, " I 
had almost forgotten my engagement, Mr. Lindsay; but 
it must not part us. You are a stranger here, and I must 
introduce you to some of my acquaintance. There are a 
few of us — choice spirits, of course — who meet every 
Saturday evening at John Hogg's ; and I must just bring 
you to see them. There may be much less wit than mirth 
among us ; but you will find us all sober, when at the 
gayest j and old John will be quite a study for you." 



CHAPTER II. 

Say, ye red gowns, that aften here 
Hae toasted cakes to Katie's beer. 
Gin e'er thir days hae had their peer, 

Sae blythe, sae daft ! 
Ye'U ne*er again in life's career 

Sit half sae saft. 

Elegy on John Hogg. 

We returned to town ; and, after threading a few of 
the narrower lanes, entered by a low door into a long 
dark room, dimly lighted by a fire. A tall thin woman 
was employed in skinning a bundle of dried fish at a table 
in a corner. 

"Where's the gudeman, Kate ? " said my companion, 
changing the sweet pure English in which he had hitherto 
spoken for his mother tongue. 

" John's ben in the spence," replied the woman. "Little 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 25 

Andrew, the wiatch, has been makin' a totum wi' his 
faither's a'e razor ; an' the pair man's trying to shave 
hirasel' yonder, an' girnan Hke a sheep's head on the 
tangs." 

" O the wratch ! the ill-deedie wratch ! " said John, 
stalking into the room in a towering passion, his face 
covered veith suds and scratches, — "I might as Aveel 
shave mysel' w^i' a mussel shillet. Rob Ferguson, man, is 
that you ? " 

" Wearie warld, John," said the poet, " for a' oor phi- 
losophy." 

" Philosophy ! — it's but a snare, Rab, — just vanity an' 
vexation o' speerit, as Solomon says. An' isna it clear 
heterodox besides? Ye study an' study till your brains 
^ang about like a whirligig ; an' then, like bairns in a boat 
that see the land sailin', ye think it's the solid yearth that's 
turnin' roun'. An' this ye ca' philosophy ; as if David 
hadna tauld us that the warld sits coshly on the waters, 
an' canna be moved." 

"Hoot, John," rejoined my companion; "it's no me, 
but Jamie Brown, that differs wi' you on thae matters. 
I'm a Hoggonian, ye ken. The auld Jews were, doubtless, 
gran' Christians ; an' wherefore no gude philosophers too ? 
But it was cruel o' you to unkennel me this mornin' afore 
six, an' I up sae lang at my studies the nicht afore." 

" Ah, Rob, Rob I " said John, — " studying in Tarn 
Dun! 8 kirk. Ye'll be a minister, like a' the lave." 

"Mindin' fast, John," rejoined the poet. "I was in 
your kirk on Sabbath last, hearing worthy Mr. Corkindale. 
Whatever else he may hae to fear, he's in nae danger a' 
'•thinking his ain thoughts^' honest man." 

" In oor kirk ! " said John ; " ye're dune, then, wi' pre- 
centin' in yer ain ; an' troth, nae wonder. What could 
3 



26 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

hae possessed ye to gie up the puir chield's name i' the 
prayer, au' him sittin' at yer lug ? " 

I was unacquainted with the circumstance to which he 
alluded, and requested an explanation. '* Oh, ye see," said 
John, "Rob, amaug a' the ither gifts that he misguides, 
has the gift o' a sweet voice ; an' naething less would ser' 
some o' oor professors than to hae him for their precentor. 
They micht as weel hae thocht o' an organ, — it wad be 
just as devout ; but the soun's eveiything now, laddie, ye 
ken, an' the heart naething. Weel, Rob, as ye may think, 
was less than pleased wi' the job, an' tauld them he could 
whistle better than sing ; but it wasna that they wanted, 
and sae it behoved him to tak' his seat in the box. An' 
lest the folk should be no pleased wi' a'e key to a'e tune, 
he gied them, for the first twa or three days, a hale bunch 
to each ; an' there was never sic singing in St. Andrews 
afore. Weel, but for a' that, it behoved him still to pre- 
cent, though he has got rid o' it at last ; for what did he 
do twa Sabbaths agane, but put up drunken Tarn Mofiat's 
name in the prayer, — the very chield that was sittin' at 
his elbow, though the minister couldna see him. An' 
when the puir stibbler was prnyin' for the reprobate as 
weel's he could, a'e half o' the kirk was needcessitated to 
come oot, that they micht keep decent, an' the ither 
half to swallow their pocket-napkins. But what think 
ye " — 

" Hoot, John, now leave oot the moral," said the poet. 
« Here's a' the lads." 

Half-a-dozen young students entered as he spoke ; and, 
after a hearty greeting, and when he had introduced me 
to them one by one, as a choice fellow of immense reading, 
the door was barred, and we sat down to lialf-a-dozen of 
home-brewed, and a huge platter of dried fish. There 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 27 

was much mirth, and no little humor. Ferguson sat at 
the head of the table, and old John Hogg at the foot. 
I thought of Eastcheap, and the revels of Prince Henry ; 
but our Falstaff was an old Scotch Seceder, and our 
Prince a gifted young fellow, who owed all his influence 
over his fellows to the force of his genius alone. 

" Prythee, Hall," I said, " let us drink to Sir John." 

" Why, yes," said the poet, " with all my heart. Not 
quite so fine a fellow, though, 'bating his Scotch honesty. 
Half Sir John's genius would have served for an epic 
poet, — half his courage for a hero." 

" His courage ! " exclaimed one of the lads. 

"Yes, Willie, his courage, man. Do you think a 
coward could have run away with half the coolness ? 
With a tithe of the courage necessary for such a retreat, 
a man would have stood and fought till he died. Sir 
John must have been a fine fellow in his youth." 

"In mony a droll way may a man fa' on the drap 
drink," remarked John ; " an' meikle ill, dootless, does it 
do in takin' aff the edge o' the speerit, — the mair if the 
edge be a fine razor edge, an' no the edge o' a whittle. 
I mind, about fifty years ago, when I was a slip o' a 
callant," — 

" Losh, John ! " exclaimed one of the lads, " hae ye been 
fechtin wi' the cats ? Sic a scrapit face ! " 

" Wheesht," said Ferguson ; " we owe the illustration 
to that ; but dinna interrupt the story." 

"Fifty years ago, when I was a slip o' a callant," con- 
tinued John, " unco curious, an' fond o' kennin everything, 
as callants will be," — 

" Hoot,* John," said one of the students, interrupting 
him, " can ye no cut short, man ? Rob promised last 



28 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

Saturday to gie us, ' Fie, let us a' to the Bridal,' an' ye see 
the ale an' the nicht's baith wearin' dune." 

" The song, Rob, the song ! " exclaimed half-a-dozen 
voices at once ; and John's story was lost in the clamor. 

"Nay, now," said the good-natured poet, "that's less 
than kind ; the auld man's stories are aye worth the hear- 
ing, an' he can relish the auld-warld fisher song wi' the 
best o' ye. But we maun hae the story yet." 

He struck up the old Scotch ditty, " Fie, let us a' to 
the Bridal," which he sung with great power and bril- 
liancy ; for his voice was a richly-modulated one, and 
there was a fulness of meaning imparted to the words 
which wonderfully heightened the effect. " How strange 
it is," he remarked to me when he had finished, " that our 
English neighbors deny us humor ! The songs of no 
country equal our Scotch ones in that quality. Are you 
acquainted with ' The Gudewife of Auchtermuchty ? ' " 

" Well," I replied ; " but so are not the English. It 
strikes me that, with the exception of Smollett's novels, 
all our Scotch humor is locked up in our native tongue. 
No man can employ in works of humor any language of 
which he is not a thorough master ; and few of our 
Scotch writers, with all their elegance, have attained the 
necessary command of that colloquial English which Ad- 
dison and Swift employed when they were merry." 

"A braw redd delivery," said John, addressing me. 
" Are ye gaun to be a minister too ? " 
"Not quite sure yet," I replied. 

"Ah," rejoined the old man, " 'twas better for the Kirk 
when the minister just made himsel' ready for it, an' then 
waited till he kent whether it wanted him. - There's 
young Kob Ferguson beside you," — 

" Setting oot for the Kirk," said the young poet, inter- 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 29 

rupting him, " an' yet dvinkin' ale on Saturday at e'en wi' 
old John Hogg." 

" Weel, weel, laddie, it's easier for the best o' us to find 
fault wi' ithers than to mend oorsels. Ye have the head, 
onyhow; but Jamie Brown tells me it's a doctor ye're 
gaun to be, after a'." 

" Nonsense, John Hogg ; I wonder how a man o' your 
standing " — 

"Nonsense, I grant you," said one of the students; 
" but true enough for a' that. Bob. Ye see, John, Bob an' 
I were at the King's Muirs last Saturday, and ca'ed at the 
pendicle^ in the passing, for a cup o' whey, when the gude- 
wife tell't us there was ane o' the callants, who had 
broken into the milk-house twa nichts afore, lying ill o' a 
surfeit. ' Dangerous case,' said Bob ; ' but let me see him. 
I have studied to small purpose if I know nothing o' med- 
icine, my good woman.' Weel, the woman was just glad 
enough to bring him to the bed-side ; an' no wonder : ye 
never saw a wiser phiz in your lives, — Dr. Dumpie's was 
naething till't ; an', after he had sucked the head o' his 
stick for ten minutes, an' fand the loon's pulse, an' asked 
mair questions than the gudewife liked to answer, he 
prescribed. But, losh ! sic a prescription ! A day's fisting 
an' twa ladles o' nettle kail was the gist o't ; but then 
there went mair Latin to the tail o' that than oor neebour 
the doctor ever had to lose." 

But I dwell too long on the conversation of this even- 
ing. I feel, however, a deep interest in recalling it to 
memory. The education of Feiguson Avas of a twofold 
character : he studied in the schools, and among the 
people ; but it was in the latter tract alone that he ac- 
quired the materials of all his better poetry ; and I feel as 
if, for at least one brief evening, I was admitted to the priv- 
3* 



30 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

ileges of a class-fellow, and sat with him on the same form. 
The company broke up a little after ten ; and I did not 
again hear of John Hogg till I read his elegy, about four 
years after, among the poems of my friend. It is by no 
means one of the happiest pieces in the volume, nor, it 
strikes me, highly characteristic ; but I have often perused 
it with interest very independent of its merits. 



CHAPTER III. 

But he Is weak; — both man and boy 
Has been an idler in the land. 

Wordsworth. 

I WAS attempting to listen, on the evening of the fol- 
lowing Sunday, to a dull, listless discourse, — one of the 
discourses so common at this period, in which there was 
fine writing without genius, and fine religion without 
Christianity, — when a j^erson who had just taken his 
place beside me tapped me on the shoulder, and thrust a 
letter into my hand. It was ray newly-acquired friend of 
the previous evening ; and we shook hands heartily under 
the pew. 

"That letter has just been handed me by an acquaint- 
ance from your part of the country," he whispered; "I 
trust it contains nothing unpleasant." 

I raised it to the light; and, on ascertaining that it was 
sealed and edged with black, rose and quitted the'church, 
followed by my friend. It intimated, in two brief lines, 
that my patron, the baronet, had been killed by a fall 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 31 

from his horse a few evenings before ; and that, dying 
intestate, the allowance which had hitherto enabled me to 
prosecute my studies necessarily di'opped. I crumpled up 
the paper in my hand. 

" You have learned something very unpleasant, " said 
Ferguson. " Pai'don me, I have no wish to intrude ; 
but, if at all agreeable, I would fain spend the evening 
with you." 

My heart filled, and, grasping his hand, I briefly inti- 
mated the purport of my communication ; and we walked 
out together in the direction of the ruins. 

" It is perhaps as hard, Mr. Ferguson," I said, " to fall 
from one's hopes as from the place to which they pointed. 
I was ambitious, — too ambitious it may be, — to rise from 
that level on which man acts the part of a machine, 
and tasks merely his body, to that higher level on which 
he performs the part of a rational creature, and employs 
only his mind. But that ambition need influence me no 
longer. My poor mother, too, — I had trusted to be of 
use to her." 

" Ah ! my friend," said Ferguson, " I can tell you of a 
case quite as hopeless as your own — perhaps more so. 
But it will make you deem my sympathy the result of 
mere selfishness. In scarce any respect do our circum- 
stances differ." 

We had reached the ruins. The evening was calm and 
mild as when I had walked out on the preceding one ; 
but the hour was earlier, and the sun hung higher over 
the hill. A newly-formed grave occupied the level spot 
in front of the little ivied corner. 

" Let us seat ourselves here," said my companion, " and 
I will tell you a story, — I am afraid a rather tame one; 
for there is nothing of adventure in it, and nothing of 



32 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

incident ; but it may at least show you that I am not un- 
fitted to be your friend. It is now nearly two years since 
I lost my father. He was no common man, — common nei- 
ther in intellect nor in sentiment, — but, though he once 
fondly hoped it should be otherwise, — for in early youth 
he indulged in all the dreams of the poet, — he now fills a 
grave as nameless as the one before us. He was a native 
of Aberdeenshire, but held lately an inferior situation in 
the office of the British Linen Company in Edinburgh, 
where I was born. Ever since I remember him, he had 
awakened too fully to the realities of life, and they 
pressed too hard on his spirits to leave him space for the 
indulgence of his earlier fancies ; but he could dream for 
his children, though not for himself; or, as I should per- 
haps rather say, his children fell heir to all his more ju- 
venile hopes of fortune and influence and space in the 
world's eye ; and, for himself, he indulged in hopes of a 
later growth and firmer texture, which pointed from the 
present scene of things to the future. I have an only 
brother, my senior by several years, a lad of much en- 
ergy, both physical and mental ; in brief, one of those 
mixtures of reflection and activity which seemed best 
formed for rising in the world. My father deemed him 
most fitted for commerce, and had influence enough to 
get him introduced into the counting-house of a resjject- 
able Edinburgh merchant. I was always of a graver 
turn, — in part, perhaps, the efiect of less robust health, — 
and me he intended for the church. I have been a 
dreamer, Mr. Lindsay, from my earliest years, — prone to 
melancholy, and fond of books and of solitude ; and the 
peculiarities of this temperament the sanguine old man, 
though no mean judge of character, had mistaken for a 
serious and reflective disposition. You are acquainted 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 33 

with literature, and know something, from books at least, 
of the lives of literary men. Judge, then, of his prospect 
of usefulness in any profession, who has lived ever since 
he knew himself among the poets. My hopes from my 
earliest years have been hopes of celebrity as a writer; 
not of wealth, or of influence, or of accomplishing any 
of the thousand aims which furnish the great bulk of man- 
kind with motives. You will laugh at me. There is 
something so emphatically shadowy and unreal in the 
object of this ambition, that even the full attainment of it 
provokes a smile. For who does not know 



How vain that second life in others' breath, 
The estate which wits inherit after death ! 



And what can be more fraught with the ludicrous than a 
union of this shadowy ambition with mediocre parts and 
attainments ? But I digress. 

" It is now rather more than three years since I entered 
the classes here. I competed for a bursary, and was for- 
tunate enough to secure one. Believe me, Mr. Lindsay, I 
am little ambitious of the fame of mere scholarship, and 
yet I cannot express to you the triumph of that day. I 
had seen my poor father laboring far, far beyond his 
strength, for my brother and myself, — closely engaged 
during the day with his duties in the bank, and copying 
at night in a lawyer's ofiice. I had seen, with a throbbing 
heart, his tall wasted frame becoming tremulous and bent, 
and the gray hair thinning on his temples ; and now I felt 
that I could ease him of at least part of the burden. In 
the excitement of the moment, I could hope that I was 
destined to rise in the world, — to gain a name in it, and 
something more. You know how a slight success grows 



34 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

in importance when we can deem it the earnest of future 
good fortune. I met, too, with a kind and influential 
friend in one of the professors, the late Dr. Wilkie, — alas ! 
good, benevolent man ! you may see his tomb yonder 
beside the wall ; and on my return from St. Andrews at 
the close of the session, I found my father on his death- 
bed. My brother Henry, who had been unfortunate, and, 
I am afraid, something worse, had quitted the counting- 
house, and entered aboard of a man-of-war as a common 
sailor ; and the poor old man, whose heart had been bound 
up in him, never held up his head after. 

"On the evening of my father's funeral I could have 
lain down and died. I never before felt how thoroughly 
I am unfitted for the world, how totally I want strength. 
My father, I have said, had intended me for the 
church ; and in my progress onward from class to class, 
and from school to college, I had thought but little of 
each particular step as it engaged me for the time, and 
nothing of the ultimate objects to which it led. All my 
more vigorous aspirations were directed to a remote fu- 
ture and an unsubstantial shadow. But I had witnessed 
beside my father's bed what had led me seriously to 
reflect on the ostensible aim for which I lived and stud- 
ied ; and the more carefully I weighed myself in the bal- 
ance, the more did I find myself wanting. You have 
heard of Mr. Brown of the Secession, the author of the 
'Dictionary of the Bible.' He was an old acquaintance 
of my father's, and, on hearing of his illness, had come all 
the way from Haddington to see him. I felt, for the first 
time, as, kneeling beside his bed, I heard my father's 
breathings becoming every moment shorter and more 
difficult, and listened to the prayers of the clergyman, 
that I had no business in the church. And thus I still 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 35 

continue to feel. 'Twere an easy matter to produce such 
things as jaass for sermons among us, and to go respecta- 
bly enough through the mere routine of the profession ; 
but I cannot help feeling that, though I might do all this 
and more, my duty as a clergyman would be still left 
undone. I want singleness of aim, — I want earnestness 
of heart. I cannot teach men effectually how to live well ; 
I cannot show them, with aught of confidence, how they 
may die safe. I cannot enter the church without acting 
the part of a hypocrite ; and the miserable part of a hyp- 
ocrite it shall never be mine to act. Heaven help me ! 
I am too little of a practical moralist myself to attempt 
teaching morals to others. 

"But I must conclude my story, if story it may be 
called. I saw my poor mother and my little sister 
deprived, by my father's death, of their sole stay,' 
and strove to exert myself in their behalf. In the day- 
time I copied in a lawyer's office ; my nights -were spent 
among the poets. You will deem it the very madness of 
vanity, Mr. Lindsay, but I could not live without my 
dreams of literary eminence. I felt that life would be a 
blank waste without them; and I feel so still. Do not 
laugh at my weakness, when I say I would rather live in 
the memory of my country than enjoy her fairest lands,— 
that I dread a nameless grave many times more than the 
grave itself But I am afraid the life of the literary aspi- 
rant is rarely a happy one ; and I, alas ! am one of the 
weakest of the class. It is of importance that the means 
of living be not disjoined from the end for which we live ; 
and I feel that in my case the disunion is complete. The 
wants and evils of life are around me ; but the energies 
through which those should be provided for, and these 
warded off, are otherwise employed. I am like a man 



36 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

pressing onward through a hot and bloody fight, his 
breast open to every blow, and tremblingly alive to 
the sense of injury and the feeling of pain, but totally 
unprepared either to attack or defend. And then those 
miserable depressions of spirit, to which all men who 
di'aw largely on their imagination are so subject, and that 
wavering irregularity of effort which seems so unavoid- 
ably the effect of pursuing a distant and doubtful aim, 
and Avhich proves so hostile to the formation of every bet- 
ter habit, — alas! to a steady morality itself. But I weary 
you, Mr. Lindsay; besides, my story is told. I am groping 
onward, I know not whither; and in a few months hence, 
when my last session shall have closed, I shall be exactly 
where you are at present." 

He ceased speaking, and there was a pause of several 
minutes. I felt soothed and gratified. There was a 
sweet melancholy music in the tones of his voice that 
sunk to my very heart ; and the confidence he reposed in 
me flattered my pride. " How was it," I at length said, 
" that you were the gayest in the party of last night ? " 

"I do not know that I can better answer you," he re- 
plied, "than by telling you a singular dream which I had 
about the time of my father's death. I dreamed that I 
had suddenly quitted the world, and was joui-neying, by a 
long and dreary passage, to the place of final punishment. 
A blue, dismal light glimmered along the lower wall of 
the vault, and from the darkness above, where there 
flickered a thousand undefined shapes, — things without 
form or outline, — I could hear deeply-drawn sighs, and 
long hollow groans, and convulsive sobbings, and the pro- 
longed moanings of an unceasing anguish. I was aware, 
however, though I know not how, that these were but the 
expressions of a lesser misery, and that the seats of se- 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 37 

verer torment were still before rae. I went on and on, and 
the vault widened; and the light increased and the sounds 
changed. There were loud laughters and low mutterings, 
in the tone of i-idicule ; and shouts of triumph and exulta- 
tion ; and, in brief, all the thousand mingled tones of a 
gay and joyous revel. Can these, I exclaimed, be the 
sounds of misery when at the deepest ? ' Bethink thee,' 
said a shadowy form beside me, — 'bethink thee if it be 
so on earth.' And as I remembered that it was so, and 
bethought me of the mad revels of shijjwrecked seamen 
and of plague-stricken cities, I awoke. But on this sub- 
ject you must spare me." 

" Forgive me," I said ; " to-morrow I leave college, and 
not with the less reluctance that I must part from you. 
But I shall yet find you occupying a place among the 
literati of our country, and shall remember with pride 
that you were my friend." 

He sighed deej)ly. "My hopes rise and fall with my 
spirits," he said ; " and to-night I am melancholy. Do 
you ever go to buffets with yourself, Mr. Lindsay? Do 
you ever mock, in your sadder moods, the hopes which 
render you happiest when you are gay ? Ah ! 'tis bitter 
warfare when a man contends with Hope! — when he sees 
her, with little aid from the personifying influence, as a 
thing distinct from himself, — a lying spirit that comes to 
flatter and deceive him. It is thus I see her to-night. 



See'st thou that grave ? — does mortal know- 
Aught of the dust that lies below? 
'Tis foul, 'tis damp, 'tis void of form, — 
A bed where winds the loathsome worm ! 
A little heap, mould'ring and brown, 
Like that on flowerless meadow thrown 
By mossj' stream, when winter reigns 
4 



38 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

O'er leafless woods and wasted plains : 

And yet, that brown, damp, formless heap 

Once glowed with feelings keen and deep ; 

Once eyed the light, once heard each sound 

Of earth, air, wave, that murmurs round. 

But now, ah ! now, the name it bore — 

Sex, age, or form — is known no more. 

This, this alone, O Hope! I know. 

That once the dust that lies below 

Was, like myself, of human race, 

And made this world its dwelling-place. /■ 

Ah! this, when earth has swept away 

The myriads of life's present day. 

Though bright the visions raised by thee. 

Will all my fame, my history be ! 

We quitted the ruins, and returned to town. 

" Have you yet formed," inquired my companion, " any 
plan for the future ? " 

" I quit St. Andrews," I replied, " to-morrow morning. 
I have an uncle, the master of a West Indiaman now in 
the Clyde. Some years ago I had a fancy for the life of a 
sailor, which has evaporated, however, with many of my 
other boyish fancies and predilections ; but I am strong 
and active, and it strikes me there is less competition on 
sea at present than on land. A man of tolerable stead- 
iness and intelligence has a better chance of rising as a 
sailor than as a mechanic. I shall set out therefore with 
ray uncle on his first voyage." 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 39 



CHAPTER IV. 

At first I thought the swankie didna ill, — 

Again I glowr'd, to hear him better still ; 

Bauld, slee, an' sweet, his lines more glorious grew, 

Glowed round the heart, an' glanced the soul out through. 

Alexander Wilson. 

I HAD seen both the Indies and traversed the wide Pa- 
cific ere I again set foot on the eastern coast of Scotland. 
My uncle, the shipmaster, was dead, and I was still a 
common sailor ; but I was light-hearted and skilful in my 
profession, and as much inclined to hope as ever. Be- 
sides, I had begun to doubt — and there cannot be a 
more consoling doubt when one is unfortunate — whether 
a man may not enjoy as much happiness in the lower 
walks of life as in the upper. In one of my later voyages, 
the vessel in which I sailed had lain for several weeks in 
Boston in North America, then a scene of those fierce and 
angry .contentions which eventually separated the colo- 
nies from the mother country ; and when in this place, I 
had become acquainted, by the merest accident in the 
world, with the brother of my friend the poet. I was 
passing through one of the meaner lanes, when I saw my 
my old friend, as I thought, looking out at me from the 
window of a crazy-looking building, — a sort of fencing 
academy, much frequented, I was told, by the Federalists 
of Boston. I crossed the lane in two huge strides. 

"Mr, Ferguson," I said, — "Mr. Ferguson," — for he 
was withdrawing his head, — "do you not remember me?" 



40 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

" Not quite sure," he replied ; " I have met with many- 
sailors in my time ; but I must just see." 

He had stepped down to the door ere I had discovered 
my mistake. He was a taller and stronger-looking man 
than my friend, and his senior, apparently, by six or eight 
years ; but nothing could be more striking than the 
resemblance which he bore to him, both in face and 
figure. I apologized. 

" But have you not a brother, a native of Edinburgh," I 
inquired, " who studied at St. Andrews about four years 
ago ? Never before, certainly, did I see so remarkable a 
likeness." 

" As that which I bear Robert ? " he said. " Happy 
to hear it. Robert is a brother of whom a man may well 
be proud, and I am glad to resemble him in any way. 
But you must go in with me, and tell me all you know re- 
garding him. He was a thin, j^ale slip of a boy when I 
left Scotland, — a mighty reader, and fond of sauntering 
into by-holes and corners ; I scarcely knew what to make 
of him ; but he has made Tnuch of himself. His name has 
been blown far and wide within the last two years." 

He showed me through a large waste apartment, fur- 
nished with a few deal seats, and with here and there a 
fencing foil leaning against the wall, into a sort of closet 
at the upper end, separated from the main room by a par- 
tition of undressed slabs. There was a charcoal stove in 
one corner, and a truckle-bed in the other. A few shelves 
laden with books ran along the wall. There was a small 
chest raised on a stool immediately below the window, to 
serve as a writing-desk, and another stool standing be- 
side it. A few cooking utensils, scattered round the room, 
and a corner cupboard, completed the entire furniture of 
the place. 



KECOLLECTIOXS OF FERGUSON. 41 

" There is a certain limited number born to be rich, 
Jack," said my new companion, "and I just don't happen 
to be among them ; but I have one stool for myself, you 
see, and, now that I have unshipped my desk, another for 
a visitor, and so get on well enough." 

I related briefly the story of my intimacy with his 
brother, and we were soon on such terms as to be in a 
fair way of emptying a bottle of rum together. 

" You remind me of old times," said my new acquaint- 
ance. " I am weary of these illiterate, boisterous, long- 
sided Americans, who talk only of politics and dollars. 
And yet there are first-rate men among them too. I met, 
some years since, with a Philadelphia printer, whom I 
cannot help regarding as one of the ablest, best-informed 
men I ever conversed with. But there is nothing like 
general knowledge among the average class, — a mighty 
privilege of conceit, however." 

"They are just in that stage," I remarked, "in which it 
needs all the vigor of an able man to bring his mind into 
anything like cultivation. There must be many more fa- 
cilities of improvement ere the mediocritist can develop 
himself. He is in the egg still in America, and must 
sleep there till the next age. — But when last heard you 
of your brother?" 

" Why," he replied, " when all the world heard of him, 
— with the last number of 'Ruddiman's Magazine.' 
Where can you have been bottled up from literature of 
late ? Why, man, Robert stands first among our Scotch 
poets." 

" Ah ! 'tis long since I have anticipated something like 
that for him," I said ; " but for the last two years I have 
seen only two books, — Shakspeare and the 'Spectator.' 
Pray, do show me some of the magazines." 
4* 






42 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

The magazines were pi'oduced ; and I heard for the first 
time, in a foreign land, and from the recitation of the 
poet's brother, some of the most national and most highly- 
finished of his productions. My eyes filled, and my heart 
wandered to Scotland and her cottage homes, as, shutting 
the book, he repeated to me, in a voice filtering with 
emotion, stanza after stanza of the " Farmer's Ingle." 

" Do you not see it ? — do you not see it all ? " ex- 
claimed my companion ; " the wide smoky room, with the 
bright turf-fire, the blackened rafters shining above, the 
straw-wrought settle below, the farmer and the farmer's 
wife, and auld grannie and the bairns. Never was there 
truer painting; and oh, how it works on a Scotch heart! 
But hear this other piece." 

He read « Sandy and Willie." 

" Far, far ahead of Ramsay," I exclaimed, — " more im- 
agination, more spirit, more intellect, and as much truth 
and nature. Robert has gained his end already. Hurrah 
for poor old Scotland ! — these pieces must live for ever. 
But do repeat to me the ' Farmer's Ingle' once more." 

We read, one by one, all the poems in the Magazine, 
dwelling on each stanza, and expatiating on every recol- 
lection of home which the images awakened. My com- 
panion Avas, like his brother, a kind, open-hearted man, of 
superior intellect ; much less prone to despondency, how- 
ever, and of a more equal temperament. Ere we parted, 
which was not until next morning, he had communicated 
to me all his plans for the future, and all his fondly-cher- 
ished hopes of returning to Scotland with wealth enough 
to be of use to his friends. He seemed to be one of those 
universal geniuses who do a thousand things well, but 
want steadiness enough to turn any of them to good 
account. He showed me a treatise on the use of the 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 43 

sword, which he had just prepared for the press, and a 
series of lettei's on the Stamp Act, which had appeared 
from time to time in one of the Boston newspapers, and in 
which he had taken part with the Americans. 

" I make a good many dollars in these stirring times," 
he said. " All the Yankees seem to be of opinion that 
they will be best heard across the water when they have 
got arms in their hands, and have learned how to use 
them ; and I know a little of both the sword and the 
musket. But the warlike spirit is frightfully thirsty, 
somehow, and consumes a world of rum ; and so I have 
not yet begun to make rich." 

He shared with me his supper and bed for the night ; 
and, after rising in the morning ere I awoke, and writing 
a long letter for Robert, which he gave me in the hope I 
might soon meet with him, he accompanied me to the 
vessel, then on the eve of sailing, and we parted, as it 
proved, for ever. I know nothing of his after-life, or how 
or where it terminated; but I have learned that, shortly 
before the death of his gifted brother, his circumstances 
enabled him to send his mother a small remittance for the 
use of the family. He was evidently one of the kind- 
hearted, improvident few who can share a very little, and 
whose destiny it is to have only a very little to share. 



44 TALES AND SKETCHES. 



CHAPTER V. 

O, Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry, musty artsl 
My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Te Embnigh gentry ! 
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stowed his pantry ! 

Burns. 

I VISITED Edinburgh for the first time in the latter part 
of the autumn of 1773, about two months after I had 
sailed from Boston, It was on a fine calm morning, — 
one of those clear sunshiny mornings of October when 
the gossamer goes sailing about in long cottony threads, 
so light and fleecy that they seem the skeleton remains of 
extinct cloudlets, and when the distant hills, with their 
covering of gray frost-rime, seem, through the clear close 
atmosphere, as if chiselled in marble. The sun was rising 
over the town through a deep blood-colored haze, — the 
smoke of a thousand fires ; and the huge fantastic piles 
of masonry that stretched along the ridge looked dim 
and spectral through the cloud, like the ghosts of an army 
of giants. I felt half a foot taller as I strode on towards 
the town. It was Edinburgh I was approaching, — the 
scene of so many proud associations to a lover of Scot- 
land ; and I was going to meet, as an early friend, one 
of the first of Scottish poets. I entered the town. There 
was a book-stall in a corner of the street, and I turned 
aside for half a minute to glance my eye over the books. 

" Ferguson's Poems ! " I exclaimed, taking up a little 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 45' 

volume. " I was not aware they had appeared in a sep- 
arate form. How do you sell this ? " 

" Just like a' the ither booksellers," said the man who 
kept the stall, — " that's nane o' the bulks that come doun 
in a hurry, — just for the marked selling price." I threw 
down the money. 

" Could you tell me anything of the writer ? " I said. 
" I have a letter for him from America." 

" Oh, that'll be frae his brother Henry, I'll wad ; a 
clever chield too, but ower fond o' the drap drink, maybe, 
like Rob himsel'. Baith o' them fine humane chields 
though, without a grain o' pride. Rob takes a stan' wi' 
me sometimes o' half an hour at a time, an' we clatter 
ower the bulks ; an', if I'm no mista'en, yon's him just 
yonder, — the thin, pale slip o' a lad wi' the broad brow. 
Ay, an' he's just comin' this way." 

" Anything new to-day, Thomas ? " said the young 
man, coming up to the stall. " I want a cheap sec- 
ond-hand copy of Ramsay's ' Evergreen ' ; and, like a 
good man as you are, you must just try and find it for 
me." 

Though considerably altered, — for he was taller and 
thinner than when at college, and his complexion had 
assumed a deep sallow hue, — I recognized him at once, 
and presented him with the letter. 

" Ah, from brother Henry," he said, breaking it open, 
and glancing his eye over the contents. " What ! old 
college chum, Mr. Lindsay ! " he exclaimed, turning to 
me. " Yes, sure enough ; how happy I am we should 
have met ! Come this way ; — let us get out of the 
streets." 

We passed hurriedly through the Canongate and along 
the front of Holyrood House, and were soon in the 



46 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

King's Park, which seemed this morning as if left to 
ourselves. 

"Dear me, and this is you yourself! and we have again 
met, Mr. Lindsay ! " said Ferguson : " I thought we were 
never to meet more. Nothing, for a long time, has made 
me half so glad. And so you have been a sailor for the 
last four years. Do let us sit down here in the warm 
sunshine, beside St. Anthony's Well; and tell me all your 
story, and how you happened to meet with brother 
Henry." 

We sat down, and I briefly related, at his bidding, all 
that had befallen me since we had parted at St. Andrews, 
and how I was still a common sailor ; but, in the main, 
perhaps, not less happy than many who commanded a 
fleet. 

"Ah, you have been a fortunate fellow," he said; "you 
have seen much and enjoyed much ; and I have been 
rusting in unhappiness at home. Would that I had gone 
to sea along with you ! " 

" Nay, now, that won't do," I replied. " But you are 
merely taking Bacon's method of blunting the edge of 
envy. You have scarcely yet attained the years of 
mature manhood, and yet your name has gone abroad 
over the whole length and breadth of the land, and over 
many other lands besides. I have cried over your poems 
three thousand miles away, and felt all the prouder of my 
country for the sake of my friend. And yet you would 
fain persuade me that you wish the charm reversed, and 
that you were just such an obscure salt-water man as 
myself! " 

" You remember," said my companion, " the story of 
the half-man, halfmarble prince of the Arabian tale. 
One part was a living creature, one part a stone ; but the 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 47 

parts were incorporated, and the mixture was misery. I 
am just such a poor unhappy creature as the enchanted 
prince of the story." 

"You surprise and distress me," I rejoined. "Have 
you not accomplished all you so fondly purposed, — 
realized even your warmest wishes ? And this, too, in 
early life. Your most sanguine hopes pointed but to a 
name, which you yourself perhaps was never to hear, 
but which was to dwell on men's tongues when the grave 
had closed over you. And now the name is gained, and 
you live to enjoy it. I see the living part of your lot, 
and it seems instinct with happiness ; but in what does 
the dead, the stony part, consist ? " 

He shook his head, and looked up mournfully into my 
face. There Avas a pause of a few seconds. " You, Mr. 
Lindsay," he at length replied, — " you, who ai-e of an 
equable, steady temperament, can know little from ex- 
perience of the unhappiness of a man who lives only in 
extremes, who is either madly gay or miserably de- 
pressed. Try and realize the feelings of one whose mind 
is like a broken harp, — all the medium tones gone, and 
only the higher and lower left ; of one, too, whose 
circumstances seem of a piece with his mind, who can 
enjoy the exercise of his better powers, and yet can only 
live by the monotonous drudgery of copying page after 
page in a clerk's ofBce ; of one who is continually either 
groping his way amid a chill melancholy fog of nervous 
depression, or carried headlong by a wild gayety to all 
which his better judgment would instruct him to avoid; 
of one who, when he indulges most in the pride of su- 
perior intellect, cannot away with the thought that that 
intellect is on the eve of breaking up, and that he must 
yet rate infinitely lower in the scale of rationality than 



48 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

any of the nameless thousands who carry on the ordinary 
concerns of life around him." 

I was grieved and astonished, and knew not what to 
answer. " You are in a gloomy mood to-day," I at length 
said ; " you are immersed in one of the fogs you de- 
scribe, and all the surrounding objects take a tinge of 
darkness from the medium through which you sui'vey 
them. Come, now, you must make an exertion, and 
shake off your melancholy. I have told you all my story 
as I best could, and you must tell me all yours in return." 

" Well," he replied, " I shall, though it mayn't be the 
best way in the world of dissipating my melancholy. I 
think r must have told you, when at college, that I had 
a maternal uncle of considerable wealth, and, as the 
world goes, respectability, who resided in Aberdeenshire. 
He was placed on what one may term the table-land 
of society ; and my poor mother, whose recollections of 
him were limited to a period when there is warmth in the 
feelings of the most ordinary minds, had hoped that he 
would willingly exert his influence in my behalf Much, 
doubtless, depends on one's setting out in life ; and it 
would have been something to have been enabled to step 
into it from a level like that occupied by my relative. I 
paid him a visit shortly after leaving college, and met 
with apparent kindness. But I can see beyond the 
surface, Mr. Lindsay, and I soon saw that my uncle was 
entirely a different man from the brother whom my 
mother remembered. He had risen, by a course of slow 
industry, from comparative poverty, and his feelings had 
worn out by the process. The character was case-hard- 
ened all over; and the polish it bore — for I have rarely 
met a smoother man — seemed no improvement. He 
was, in brief, one of the class content to dwell for ever 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 49 

in mere decencies, with consciences made np of tlie con- 
ventional moralities, who think by precedent, bow to 
public opinion as their god, and estimate merit by its 
weight in guineas." 

"And so your visit," I said, "was a very brief one ?" 

"You distress me," he replied. "It should have been 
so ; but it was not. But what could I do ? Ever since 
my father's death I had been taught to consider this man 
as my natural guardian, and I was now unwilling to part 
with my last" hope. But this is not all. Under much 
apparent activity, my friend, there is a substratum of 
apathetical indolence in my disposition : I move rapidly 
when in motion ; but when at rest, there is a dull inert- 
ness in the character, which the will, when unassisted by 
passion, is too feeble to overcome. Poor, weak creature 
that I am ! I had set down by my uncle's fireside, and 
felt unwilling to rise. Pity me, my friend, — I deseiwe 
your pity ; but oh ! do not despise me ! " 

" Forgive me, Mr. Ferguson," I said; "I have given you 
pain, but surely most unwittingly." 

"I am ever a fool," he continued. "But my story lags; 
and, surely, there is little in it on which it were pleasure 
to dwell. I sat at this man's table for six months, and 
saw, day after day, his manner towards me becoming 
more constrained, and his politeness more cold ; and yet 
I staid on, till at last my clothes were worn threadbare, 
and he began to feel that the shabbiness of the nephew 
affected the respectability of the uncle. His friend the 
soap-boiler, and his friend the oil-merchant, and his friend 
the manager of the hemp manufactory, with their wives 
and daughters, — all people of high standing in the world, 
— occasionally honored his table with their presence ; 
and how could he be other than ashamed of mine? It 



60 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

vexes me that I cannot even yet be cool on the subject: 
it vexes me that a creature so sordid should have so much 
power to move me; but I cannot, I cannot master my 
feelings. He — he told me, — and with whom should 
the blame rest, but with the weak, spiritless thing who 
lingered on in mean, bitter dependence, to hear what he 
had to tell ? — he told me that all his friends were respect- 
able, and that my appearance was no longer that of a 
person whom he could wish to see at his table, or intro- 
duce to any one as his nephew. And I had staid to hear 
all this ! 

"I can hardly tell you how I got home. I travelled, 
stage after stage, along the rough dusty roads, with a 
weak and feverish body, and almost despairing mind. 
On meeting with my mother, I could have laid my head 
on her bosom and cried like a child. I took to ray bed 
in a high fever, and trusted that all my troubles were soon 
to termiftate ; but when the die was cast, it turned up life. 
I resumed my old miserable employments, — for what 
could I else ? — and, that I might be less unhappy in the 
prosecution of them, my old amusements too. I copied 
during the day in a clerk's office that I might live, and 
wrote during the night that I might be known. And I 
have in part, pei'haps, attained my object. I have pursued 
and caught hold of the shadow on which my heart had 
been so long set ; and if it prove empty and intangible 
and unsatisfactory, like every other shadow, the blame 
surely must rest with the pursuer, not with the thing 
pursued. T weary you, Mr. Lindsay ; but one word more. 
There are hours when the mind, weakened by exertion or 
by the teasing monotony of an employment which tasks 
without exercising it, can no longer exert its powers, and 
when, feeling that sociality is a law of our nature, we 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 51 

seek the society of our fellow-men. With a creature so 
much the sport of impulse as I am, it is of these hours 
of weakness that conscience takes most note. God help 
me ! I have been told that life is short ; but it stretches 
on and on and on before me ; and I know not how it is 
to be passed through." 

My spirits had so sunk during this singular conversa- 
tion that I had no heart to reply. 

" You are silent, Mr. Lindsay," said the poet ; " I have 
made you as melancholy as myself; but look around you, 
and say if ever you have seen a lovelier spot. See how 
richly the yellow sunshine slants along the green sides of 
Arthur's Seat; and how the thin blue smoke, that has 
come floating from the town, fills the bottom of yonder 
grassy dell as if it were a little lake ! Mark, too, how 
boldly the cliffs stand out along its sides, each with its 
little patch of shadow. And here, beside us, is St. An- 
thony's Well, so famous in song, coming gushing out to 
the sunshine, and then gliding away through the grass 
like a snake. Had the Deity purposed that man should 
be miserable, he would surely never have placed him in so 
fair a world. Perhaps much of our unhappiness origi- 
nates in our mistaking our proper scope, and thus setting 
out from the first with a false aim," 

" Unquestionably," I replied. " There is no man who 
has not some part to perform ; and if it be a great and 
uncommon part, and the powera which fit him for it 
proportionably great and uncommon, nature would be in 
error could he slight it with impunity. See ! there is a 
wild bee bending the flower beside you. Even that little 
creature has a capacity of happiness and misery : it de- 
rives its sense of pleasure from whatever runs in the line 
of its instincts, its experience of unhappiness from 



62 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

whatever thwarts and opposes them ; and can it be sup- 
posed that so wise a law should regulate the instincts of 
only inferior creatures ? No, my friend ; it is surely a 
law of our nature also." 

" And have you not something else to infer ? " said the 
poet. 

" Yes," I replied ; " that you are occupied differently 
from what the scope and constitution of your mind de- 
mand, — differently both in your hours of enjoyment and 
of relaxation. But do take heart ; you will yet find your 
proper j^lace, and all shall be well." 

" Alas ! no, my friend," said he, rising from the sward. 
"I could once entertain such a hope, but I cannot now. 
My mind is no longer what it was to me in my hap- 
pier days, a sort of terra incognita without bounds or 
limits. I can see over and beyond it, and have fallen 
from all my hopes regai'ding it. It is not so much the 
gloom of present circumstances that disheartens me as 
a depressing knowledge of myself, — an abiding convic- 
tion that I am a weak dreamer, unfitted for every occu- 
pation of life, and not less so for the greater employments 
of literature than for any of the others. I feel that I am 
a little man and a little poet, with barely vigor enough 
to make one half-eftbrt at a time, but wholly devoid of 
the sustaining will — that highest faculty of the highest 
order of minds — which can direct a thousand vigorous 
efforts to the accomplishment of one important object. 
Would that I could exchange my half-celebrity — and 
it can never be other than a half-celebrity — for a tem- 
per as equable and a fortitude as unshrinking as yours ! 
But I weary you with my complaints : I am a very 
coward ; and you will deem me as selfish as I am 
weak." 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 53 

We parted. The poet, sadly and unwillingly, went to 
copy deeds in the office of the commissary-clerk ; and I, 
almost reconciled to obscurity and hard labor, to assist in 
unlading a Baltic trader in the harbor of Leith. 



CHAPTER VI, 

Speech without aim, and without end employ. 

Ceabbe. 

After the lapse of nine months, I again returned to 
Edinburgh. During that period I had been so shut out 
from literature and the world, that I had heard nothing 
of my friend the j^oet ; and it was with a beating heart I 
left the vessel, on my first leisure evening, to pay him a 
visit. It was about the middle of July. The day had 
been close and sultry, and the heavens overcharged with 
gray ponderous clouds ; and as I passed hurriedly along 
the walk Avhich leads from Leith to Edinburgh, I could 
hear the newly-awakened thunder, bellowing far in the 
south, peal after peal, like the artillery of two hostile 
armies. I reached the door of the poet's humble domicile, 
and had raised my hand to the knocker, when I heard 
some one singing from within, in a voice by far the most 
touchingly mournful I had ever listened to. The tones 
struck on my heart ; and a frightful suspicion crossed my 
mind, as I set down the knocker, that the singer was no 
other than my friend. But in what wretched circum- 
stances ! what fearful state of mind ! I shuddered as I 
listened, and heard the strain waxing louder and yet more 
5* 



54 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

mournful, and could distinguish that the words were those 
of a siniiDle old ballad, — 

O, Marti'mas wind ! when wilt thou blaw, 
An' shake the green leaves aff the tree ? 

0, gentle death ! when wilt thou come, 
An' tak a life that wearies me ? 

I could listen no longer, but raised the latch and went 
in. The evening was gloomy, and the apartment ill- 
lighted ; but I could see the singer, a spectral-looking fig- 
ure, sitting on a bed in the corner, with the bed-clothes 
wrapped round his shoulders, and a napkin deeply stained 
with blood on his head. An elderly female, who stood 
beside him, was striving to soothe him, and busied from 
time to time in adjusting the clothes, which were ever 
and anon falling off as he nodded his head in time to the 
music. A young girl of great beauty sat weeping at the 
bed-foot. 

"O, dearest Robert!" said the woman, "you will de- 
stroy your poor head ; and Margaret, your sister, whom 
you used to love so much, will break her heart. Do lie 
down, dearest, and take a little rest. Your head is fear- 
fully gashed ; and if the bandages loose a second time, you 
will bleed to death. Do, dearest Robert ! for your poor old 
mother, to whom you were always so kind and dutiful a 
sou till now, — for your poor old mother's sake, do lie 
down." 

The song ceased for a moment, and the tears came 
bursting from my eyes as the tune changed, and he again 
sang, — 

0, mither dear! make 3'e my bed, 

For my heart it's flichterin' salt; 
An' oh ! gin I've vex'd ye, mither dear, 

I'll never vex ye mair. 



KECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 55 

I've staid ar'out the lang dark nicht, 

I' the sleet and the plashy rain; 
But, mitlier dear, make ye my bed, 

An' I'll ne'er f^'ang out again. 

" Dearest, dearest Robert ! " continued the poor, heart- 
broken woman, "do lie down, — for your poor old moth- 
er's sake, do lie down." 

"No, no," he exclaimed, in a hurried voice, "not just 
now, mother, not just now. Here is my friend Mr. Lindsay 
come to see me, — my true friend, Mr. Lindsay the sailor, 
who has sailed all round and round the world ; and I 
have much, much to ask him. A chair, Margaret, for Mi\ 
Lindsay. I must be a preacher like John Knox, you 
know, — like the great John Knox, the reformer of a 
nation, — and Mr. Lindsay knows all about him. A chair, 
Margai-et, for Mr. Lindsay." 

I am not ashamed to say it was with tears, and in a 
voice faltering with emotion, that I apologized to the poor 
woman for my intrusion at such a time. Were it other- 
wise, I might well conclude my heart grown hard as a 
piece of the nether millstone. 

" I had known Robert at college," I said ; " had loved 
and respected him ; and had now come to pay him a 
visit, after an absence for several months, wholly unpre- 
pared for finding him in his present condition." And 
it Avould seem that my tears plead for me, and proved 
to the poor afiiicted woman and her daughter by far the 
most eflScient part of my apology. 

" All my friends have left me now, Mr. Lindsay," said 
the unfortunate poet, — " they have all left me now ; they 
love this present world. We were all going down, down, 
down ; there was the roll of a river behind us ; it came 
bursting over the high rocks, roaring, rolling, foaming, 



56 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

down upon us ; and, though the fog was thick and dark 
below, — far below, in the place to which we were going, 
— I could see the red fire shining through, — the red, hot, 
unquenchable fire ; and we were all going down, down, 
down. Mother, mother, tell Mr. Lindsay I am going to be 
put on my trials to-morrow. Careless creature that I am ! 
life is short, and I have lost much time; but I am going 
to be put on my trials to-morrow, and shall come forth a 
jDreacher of the Word." 

The thunder, which had hitherto been muttering at a 
distance, — each peal, however, nearer and louder than 
the preceding one, — now began to roll overhead, and the 
lightning, as it passed the window, to illumine every 
object within. The hapless poet stretched out his thin, 
wasted arm, as if addressing a congregation from the 
pulpit, 

" There were the flashings of lightning," he said, " and 
the roll of thunder ; and the trumpet waxed lo.uder and 
louder. And around the summit of the mountain were 
the foldings of thick clouds, and the shadow fell brown 
and dark over the wide expanse of the desert. And the 
wild beasts lay ti-embling in their dens. But, lo! where 
the sun breaks through the opening of the cloud, there is 
the glitter of tents, — the glitter often thousand tents, — 
that rise over the sandy waste thick as waves of the sea. 
And there, there is the voice of the dance, and of the 
revel, and the winding of horns, and the clash of cymbals. 
Oh, sit nearer me, dearest mother, for the room is growing 
dark, dark ; and oh, my poor head ! 

The lady sat on the castle wa', 
Looked owre baith dale and down, 

And then she spied Gil-Morice head 
Corae steering throuf^h the town. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 57 

Do, dearest mother, put your cool hand on my brow, and 
do hold it fast ere it part. How fearfully, oh, how fear- 
fully it aches ! — and oh, how it thunders ! " He sunk 
backward on the pillow, apparently exhausted. "Gone, 
gone, gone," he muttered, — "my mind gone foi-ever. 
But God's will be done." 

I rose to leave the room ; for I could restrain my feel- 
ings no longer. 

" Stay, Mr. Lindsay," said the poet, in a feeble voice. 
" I hear the rain dashing on the pavement ; you must not 
go till it abates. "Would that you could pray beside me ! 
But no ; you are not like the dissolute companions who 
have now all left me, but you are not yet fitted for that ; 
and, alas ! I cannot pray for myself. Mother, mother, see 
that there be prayers at my lykewake ; for, — 

Her lykewake, it was piously spent 

In social prayer and praise, 
Performed by judicious men. 

Who stricken were in days ; 
And many a heavy, heavy heart, 

Was in that mournful place. 
And many a weary, weary thought 

On her who slept in peace. 

They will come all to my lykewake, mother, won't they ? 
Yes, all, though they have left me now. Yes, and they 
will come far to see my grave. I was poor, very poor, 
you know, and they looked down upon me; and I was no 
son or cousin of theirs, and so they could do nothing for 
me. Oh, but they might have looked less coldly ! But 
they will all come to my grave, mother ; they will come 
all to my grave; and they will say, 'Would he were liv- 
ing now, to know how kind we are ! ' But they will look 
as coldly as ever on the living poet beside them, — yes, till 



58 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

they have broken his heart ; and then they will go to his 
grave too. O, dearest mother ! do lay your cool hand on 
my brow." 

He lay silent and exhausted, and in a few minutes I 
could hope, from the hardness of his breathing, that he 
had fallen asleep, 

" How long," I inquired of his sister, in a low whisper, 
"has Mr. Ferguson been so unwell; and what has injured 
his head ? " 

"Alas!" said the girl, "my brother has been unsettled 
in mind for nearly the last six months. We first knew it 
one evening on his coming home from the country, where 
he had been for a few days with a friend. He burnt a 
large heap of papers that he had been employed on for 
weeks before, — songs and poems that, his friends say, 
were the finest things he ever wrote ; but he burnt them 
all, for he was going to be a preacher of the Word, he 
said, and it did not become a preacher of the Word to 
be a writer of light rhymes. And O, sir ! his mind 
has been carried ever since ; but he has been always 
gentle and affectionate, and his sole delight has lain in 
reading the Bible. Good Dr. Erskine, of the Gray-friars, 
often comes to our house, and sits with him for hours to- 
gether : for there are times when his mind seems stronger 
than ever; and he sees wonderful things, that seem to 
hover, the minister says, between the extravagance natu- 
ral to his present sad condition, and the higher flights of a 
philosophic genius. And we had hoped that he was get- 
ting better ; but O, sir ! our hopes have had a sad ending. 
He went out, a few evenings ago, to call on an old ac- 
quaintance ; and, in descending a stair, missed footing, and 
fell to the bottom ; and his head has been feai-fully in- 
jured by the stones. He has been just as you have seen 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 69 

him ever since ; and oh ! I much fear he cannot now re- 
cover. Alas! my poor brother! — never, never was there 
a more affectionate heart." 



CHAPTER VII. 

A lowly muse ! 
She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown. 

I RETURNED to the vessel with a heavy heart ; and it 
was nearly three months from this time ere I again set 
foot in Edinburgh. Alas for ray unfortunate friend ! Pie 
was now an inmate of the asylum, and on the verge of 
dissolution. I was thrown by accident, shortly after my 
arrival at this time, into the company of one of his boon 
companions. I had gone into a tavern with a brother 
sailor, — a shrewd, honest skipper from the north coun- 
try ; and, finding the place occupied by half-a-dozen young 
fellows, who were growing noisy over their liquor, I 
would have immediately gone out again, had I not 
caught, in the passing, a few words regai'ding my friend. 
And so, drawing to a side-table, I sat down. 

"Believe me," said one of the topers, a dissolute-looking 
young man, " it's all over with Bob Ferguson, — all over ; 
and I knew it from the moment he grew religious. Had 
old Brown tried to convert me, I would have broken his 
face." 

"What Brown ? " inquired one of his companions. 

"Is that all you know?" rejoined the other. "Why, 
John Brown, of Haddington, the Seceder. Bob was at 



60 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

Haddington last year at the election ; and one morning, 
when in the horrors, after holding a rum night of it, who 
should he meet in the churchyard but old John Brown. 
He writes, you know, a big book on the Bible. Well, he 
lectured Bob at a pretty rate about election and the call, 
I suppose ; and the poor fellow has been mad ever since. 
Your health, Jamie. For my own part, I'm a freewill 
man, and detest all cant and humbug." 

" And what has come of Ferguson now ? " asked one of 
the others. 

"Oh, mad, sir, mad!" rejoined the toper, — "reading 
the Bible all day, and cooped up in the asylum yonder. 
'Twas I who brought him to it. But, lads, the glass has 
been standing for the last half-hour. 'Twas I and Jack 
Robinson who brought him to it, as I say. He was 
getting wild ; and so we got a sedan for him, and 
trumped a story of an invitation for tea from a lady, and 
he came with us as quietly as a lamb. But if you could 
have heard the shriek he gave when the chair stopped, 
and he saw where we had brought him ! I never heard 
anything half so horrible ; it rung in my ears for a week 
after ; and then, how the mad people in the upper rooms 
howled and gibbered in reply, till the very roof echoed ! 
People say he is getting better ; but when I last saw him 
he was as religious as ever, and spoke so much about 
heaven that it was uncomfortable to hear him. Great loss 
to his friends, after all the expense they have been at with 
his education." 

" You seem to have been intimate with Mr. Ferguson," 
I said. 

" Oh, intimate with Bob ! " he rejoined ; " we were hand 
and glove, man. I have sat with him in Lucky Middle- 
mass's almost every evening for two years; and I have 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 61 

given hira bints for some of the best things in his book. 
'Twas I who tumbled down the cage in the Meadows, and 
began breaking the lamps. 

Ye who oft finish care in Lethe's cup, — 
Who love to swear and roar, and keep it up, — 
List to a brother's voice, whose sole delight 
Is sleep all day, and riot all the night. 

" There's spirit for you ! But Bob was never sound at 
bottom ; and I have told him so. ' Bob,' I have said, — 
' Bob, you're but a hypocrite after all, man, — without 
half the spunk you pretend to. Why don't you take 
a pattern by me, who fear nothing, and believe only the 
agreeable ? But, poor fellow, he had weak nerves, and a 
church-going propensity that did him no good ; and you 
see the effects. 'Twas all nonsense, Tom, of his throwing 
the squib into the Glassite meeting-house. Between you 
and \ that was a cut far beyond him in his best days, 
poet as he was. 'Twas I who did it, man ; and never was 
there a cleaner row in Auld Reekie." 

"Heartless, contemptible puppy!" said my comrade 
the sailor, as we left the room. " Your poor friend must 
be ill indeed if he be but half as insane as his quondam 
companion. But he cannot : there is no madness like that 
of the heart. What could have induced a man of genius 
to associate with a thing so thoroughly despicable ? " 

" The same misery, Miller," I said, " that brings a man 
acquainted with strange hed-fellowsV 

6 



62 TALES AND SKETCHES. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

0, thou, my elder brother in misfortune! — 
By far my elder brother in the muses, — 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate! 

BUENS. 

The asylum in which my unfortunate friend was con- 
fined — at this time the only one in Edinburgh — was 
situated in an angle of the city wall. It was a dismal- 
looking mansion, shut in on every side by the neighbor- 
ing houses from the view of the surrounding country, 
and so effectually covered up from the nearer street by 
a large building in front that it seemed possible enough 
to pass a lifetime in Edinburgh without coming to the 
knowledge of its existence. I shuddered as I looked up 
to its blackened walls, thinly sprinkled with miserable- 
looking windows barred with iron, and thought of it 
as a sort of burial-place of dead minds. But it was a 
Golgotha which, with more than the horrors of the grave, 
had neither its rest nor its silence. I was startled, as 
I entered the cell of the hapless poet, by a shout of 
laughter from a neighboring room, which was answered 
from a dark recess behind me by a fearfully-prolonged 
shriek and the clanking of chains. The mother and 
sister of Ferguson were sitting beside his pallet, on a sort 
of stone settle, which stood out from the wall ; and the 
poet himself — weak and exhausted and worn to a 
shadow, but apparently in his right mind — lay extended 
on the straw. He made an attempt to rise as I entered ; 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 63 

but the effort was above his strength, and, again lying 
down, he extended his hand. 

" This is kind, Mr. Lindsay," he said ; " it is ill for me 
to be alone in these days; and yet I have few visitors 
save my poor old mother and Margaret, But who cares 
for the unhappy ? " 

I sat down on the settle beside him, still retaining his 
hand. " I have been at sea, and in foreign countries," I 
said, "since I last saw you, Mr. Ferguson, and it was 
only this morning I returned ; but, believe me, there are 
many, many of your countrymen who sympathize sin- 
cerely in your affliction, and take a warm interest in your 
recovery. 

He sighed deeply. " Ah," he replied, " I know too well 
the natui'e of that sympathy. You never find it at the 
bedside of the sufferer; it evaporates in a few barren 
expressions of idle pity ! and yet, after all, it is but a 
paying the poet in kind. He calls so often on the world 
to sympathize over fictitious misfortune that the feeling 
wears out, and becomes a mere mood of the imagination ; 
and with this light, attenuated pity, of his own weaving, 
it regards his own real sorrows. Dearest mother, the 
evening is damp and chill. Do gather the bed-clothes 
around me, and sit on ray feet : they are so very cold, and 
so dead that they cannot be colder a week hence." 

" O, Robert ! why do you speak so ? " said the poor 
woman, as she gathered the clothes around him, and sat 
tn his feet. "You know you are coming home to- 
morrow." 

"To-morrow!" he said; "if I see to-morrow, I shall 
have completed my twenty-fourth year, — a small i^art, 
surely, of the threescore and ten ; but what matters it 
when 'tis past?" 



64 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

"You were ever, my friend, of a melancholy tempera- 
ment," I said, " and too little disposed to hope. Indulge 
in brighter views of the future, and all shall yet be well." 

" I can now hope that it shall," he said. " Yes, all 
shall be well with me, and that very soon. But oh, 
how this nature of ours shrinks from dissolution ! — yes, 
and all the lower natures too. You remember, mother, 
the poor starling that was killed in the room beside us ? 
Oh, how it struggled with its ruthless enemy, and filled 
the whole place with its shrieks of terror and agony ! 
And yet, poor little thing, it had been true, all life long, 
to the laws of its nature, and had no sins to account for 
and no Judge to meet. There is a shrinking of heart as 
I look before me ; and yet I can hope that all shall yet 
be well with me, and that very soon. Would that I had 
been wise in time ! "Would that I had thought more and 
earlier of the things which pertain to my eternal peace ! — 
more of a living soul, and less of a dying name ! But 
oh ! 'tis a glorious provision, through which a way of 
return is opened up, even at the eleventh hour." 

We sat around him in silence. An indescribable feel- 
ing of awe pervaded my whole mind ; and his sister was 
affected to tears. 

"Margaret," he said, in a feeble voice, — "Margaret, 
you will find my Bible in yonder little recess : 'tis all I 
have to leave you ; but keep it, dearest sister, and use it, 
and in times of sorrow and suffering, that come to all, 
you will know how to prize the .legacy of your poor 
brother. Many, many books do well enough for life ; but 
ihere is only one of any value when we come to die. 

" You have been a voyager of late, Mr. Lindsay," he 
continued, " and I have been a voyager too. I have been 
journeying in darkness and discomfort, amid strange un- 



RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 65 

earthly shapes of dread and horror, with no reason to 
direct, and no will to govern. Oh, the unspeakable 
unhappiness of these wanderings ! — these dreams of sus- 
picion, and fear, and hatred, in which shadow and 
substance, the true and the false, were so wrought up 
and mingled together that they formed but one fantastic 
and miserable whole. And oh, the unutterable horror of 
every momentary return to a recollection of what I had 
been once, and a sense of what I had become ! Oh, when 
I awoke amid the terrors of the night ; when I turned 
me on the rustling straw, and heard the wild wail, and 
yet wilder laugh ; when I heard, and shuddered, and 
then felt the demon in all his might coming over me, till 
I laughed and wailed with the others, — oh, the misery ! 
the utter misery ! But 'tis over, my friend, — 'tis all over. 
A few, few tedious days — a few, few weary nights — 
and all my sufferings shall be over." 

I had covered my face with my hands, but the tears 
came bursting through my fingers. The mother and 
sister of the poet sobbed aloud. 

" Why sorrow for me, sirs ? " he said ; " why grieve for 
me ? I am well, quite well, and want for nothing. But 
'tis cold, oh, 'tis very cold, and the blood seems freezing 
at my heart. Ah, but there is neither pain nor cold 
where I am going, and I trust it will be well with my 
soul. Dearest, dearest mother, I always told you it would 
come to this at last." 

The keeper had entered, to intimate to us that the hour 
for locking up the cells was already past ; and we now 
rose to leave the place. I stretched out my hand to my 
unfortunate friend. He took it in silence ; and his thin, 
attenuated fingers felt (ibid within my grasp, like those of 
a corpse. His mother stooped down to embrace him. 
6* 



66 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

" Oh, do not go yet, mother," he said, — " do not go 
yet, — do not leave me. But it must be so, and I only 
distress you. Pray for me, dearest mother, and oh, for- 
give me. I have been a grief and a burden to you alf life 
long; but I ever loved you, mother; and oh, you have 
been kind, kind and forgiving ; and now your task is over. 
May God bless and reward you ! Margaret, dearest Mar- 
garet, farewell ! " 

We parted, and, as it proved, forever. Robert Fer- 
guson expired during the night ; and when the keeper 
entered the cell next morning to prepare him for quitting 
the asylum, all that remained of this most hapless of the 
children of genius was a pallid and wasted corpse, that 
lay stiffening on the straw. I am now a very old man, 
and the feelings wear out ; but I find that my heart is 
even yet susceptible of emotion, and that the source of 
tears is not yet dried up. 



II. 

RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 

CHAPTER I. 



Wear we not graven on our hearts 
The name of Robert Burns ? 

American Poet. 

The degrees shorten as we proceed from the lower to 
the higher latitudes; the years seem to shorten in a much 
greater ratio as we pass onward through life. We are al- 
most disposed to question whether the brief period of 
storms and foul weather that floats over us with such 
dream-like rapidity, and the transient season of flowers 
and sunshine that seems almost too short for enjoyment, 
be at all identical with the long summers and still longer 
winters of our boyhood, when day after day, and week 
after week, stretched away in dim perspective, till lost in 
the obscurity of an almost inconceivable distance. Young 
as I was, I had already passed the period of life when we 
wonder how it is that the years should be described as 
short and fleeting; and it seemed as if I had stood but 
yesterday beside the deathbed of the unfortunate Fer- 
guson, though the flowers of four summers and the snows 
of four winters had been shed over his grave. 



68 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

My prospects in life had begun to brighten. I served 
in the capacity of mate in a large West India trader, the 
master of which, an elderly man of considerable wealth, 
was on the eve of quitting the. sea; and the owners had 
already determined that I should succeed him in the 
charsre. But fate had ordered it otherwise. Our seas 
were infested at this period by American privateers, — 
prime sailors and strongly armed ; and, when homeward 
bound from Jamaica with a valuable cai'go, we were at- 
tacked and captured, when within a day's sailing of Ire- 
land, by one of the most formidable of the class. Vain 
as resistance might have been deemed, — for the force of 
the American was altogether overpowering, — and though 
our master, poor old man ! and three of the crew, had 
fallen by the first broadside, we had yet stood stiflly by our 
guns, and were only overmastered when, after falling foul 
of the enemy, we were boarded by a party of thrice our 
strength and number. The Americans, irritated by our 
resistance, proved on this occasion no generous enemies : 
we were stripped and heavily ironed, and, two days after, 
were set ashore on the wild shore of Connaught, without 
a single change of dress, or a single sixpence to bear us 
by the way. 

I was sitting, on the following night, beside the turf- 
fire of a hospitable Irish peasant, Avhen a seafaring man, 
whom I had sailed with about two years before, entered 
the cabin. The meeting was equally unexpected on 
either side. My acquaintance was the master of a smug- 
gling lugger then on the coast ; and, on acquainting him 
with the details of my disaster and the state of destitu- 
tion to which it had reduced me, he kindly proposed that 
I should accompany him on his voyage to the west coast 
of Scotland, for which he was then on the eve of sailing. 



RECOLLECTIONS OP BURNS. 69 

"You will run some little risk," he said, "as the compan- 
ion of a man who has now been thrice outlawed for firing 
on his Majesty's flag ; but 1 know your proud heart will 
prefer the danger of bad company, at its worst, to the al- 
ternative of begging your way home." He judged rightly. 
Before daybreak we had lost sight of land, and in four 
days more we could discern the precipitous shores of Car- 
rick, stretching in a dark line along the horizon, and the 
hills of the interior rising thin and blue behind, like a 
volume of clouds. A considerable part of our cargo, 
which consisted mostly of tea and spirits, was consigned to 
an Ayr trader, who had several agents in the remote par- 
ish of Kirkoswald, which at this period aflEbrded more 
facilities for carrying on the contraband trade than any 
other on the western coast of Scotland, and in a rocky 
bay of the parish we proposed unlading on the following 
night. It was necessary, however, that the several agents, 
who were yet ignorant of our arrival, should be prepared 
to meet with us ; and, on volunteering my service for the 
purpose, I was landed near the ruins of the ancient castle 
of Turnberry, once the seat of Robert the Bruce. 

I had accomplished my object. It was evening, and a 
party of countrymen were sauntering among the cliflEs, 
waiting for nightfall and the appearance of the lugger. 
There are splendid caverns on the coast of Kirkoswald ; 
and, to while away the time, I had descended to the shore 
by a broken and precipitous path, with a view of explor- 
ing what are termed the Caves of Colzean, by far the 
finest in this part of Scotland. The evening was of great 
beauty : the sea spread out from the cliffs to the far hori- 
zon like the sea of gold and crystal described by the 
prophet, and its warm orange hues so harmonized with 
those of the sky that, passing over the dimly-defined line 



70 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

of demai'cation, the whole upper and nether expanse 
seemed but one glorious firmament, with the dark Ailsa, 
like a thunder-cloud, sleeping in the midst. The sun 
was hastening to his setting, and threw his strong red 
light on the wall of rock which, loftier and more imposing 
than the walls of even the mighty Babylon, stretched on- 
ward along the beach, headland after headland, till the 
last sank abruptly in the far distance, and only the wide 
ocean stretched beyond. I passed along the insulated 
piles of cliff that rise thick along the bases of the preci- 
pices — now in sunshine, now in shadow — till I reached 
the opening of one of the largest caves. The roof rose 
more than fifty feet over my head ; a broad stream of 
light, that seemed redder and more fiery from the sur- 
rounding gloom, slanted inwards ; and, as I paused in the 
opening, my shadow, lengthened and dark, fell across the 
floor — a slim and narrow bar of black — till lost in the 
gloom of the inner recess. There was a wild and uncom- 
mon beauty in the scene that powerfully affected the 
imagination ; and I stood admii-ing it, in that delicious 
dreamy mood in which one can forget all but the present 
enjoyment, when I was roused to a recollection of the 
business of the evening by the sound of a footfall echoing 
from within. It seemed approaching by a sort of cross 
passage in the rock ; and, in a moment after, a young man 
— one of the country people whom I had left among the 
cliffs above — stood before me. He wore a broad Low- 
land bonnet, and his plain homely suit of coarse russet 
seemed to bespeak him a peasant of perhaps the poorest 
class; but as he emerged from the gloom, and the red 
light fell full on his countenance, I saw an indescribable 
something in the expression that in an instant awakened 
my curiosity. He was rather above the middle size, of a 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 71 

frame the most muscular and compact I have ahnost ever 
seen ; and there was a blended mixture of elasticity and 
firmness in his tread that, to one accustomed, as I had 
been, to estimate the physical capabilities of men, gave 
evidence of a union of immense personal strength with ac- 
tivity. My first idea regarding the stranger — and I know 
not how it should have struck me — was that of a very 
powerful frame, animated by a double portion of vital- 
ity. The red light shone full on his face, and gave a 
ruddy tinge to the complexion, which I afterwards found 
it wanted, for he was naturally of a darker hue than 
common ; but there was no mistaking the expression of 
the large flashing eyes, the features that seemed so thor- 
oughly cast in the mould of thought, and the broad, full, 
perpendicular forehead. Such, at least, was the impres- 
sion on my mind, that I addressed him with more of the 
courtesy which my earlier pursuits had rendered familiar 
to me, than of the bluntness of my adopted profession, 
"This sweet evening," I said, "is by far too fine for our 
lugger ; I question whether, in these calms, we need ex- 
pect her before midnight. But 'tis well, since wait we 
must, that 'tis in a place where the hours may pass so 
agreeably." The stranger good-humoredly acquiesced in 
the remark ; and we sat down together on the dry, water- 
worn pebbles, mixed with fragments of broken shells and 
minute pieces of wreck, that strewed the opening of the 
cave. 

" Was there ever a lovelier evening ! " he exclaimed. 
"The waters above the firmament seem all of a piece 
with the waters below. And never, surely, was there a 
scene of wilder beauty. Only look inwards, and see how 
the stream of red light seems bounded by the extreme 
darkness, like a river by its banks, and how the reflection 



72 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

of the ripple goes waving in golden curls along the 
roof!" 

"I have been admiring the scene for the last half-hour," 
I said. "Shakspeare speaks of a music that cannot be 
heard ; and I have not yet seen a place where one might 
better learn to comment on the passage." 

Both the thought and the phrase seemed new to him. 

" A music that cannot be heard ! " he repeated ; and 
then, after a momentary pause, " You allude to the fact," 
he continued, "that sweet music, and forms, such as these, 
of silent beauty and grandeur, awaken in the mind emo- 
tions of neai-ly the same class. There is something truly 
exquisite in the concert of to-night." 

I muttered a simple assent. 

" See ! " he continued, " how finely these insulated piles 
of rock, that rise in so many combinations of form along 
the beach, break and diversify the red light ; and how the 
glossy leaves of the ivy glisten in the hollows of the preci- 
pices above ! And then, how the sea spreads away to 
the far horizon, — a glorious pavement of crimson and 
gold, — and how the dark Ailsa rises in the midst, like 
the little cloud seen by the prophet!. The mind seems to 
enlarge, the heart to expand, in the contemplation of so 
much of beauty and grandeur. The soul asserts its due 
supremacy. And oh, 'tis surely well that we can escape 
from those little cares of life which fetter down our 
thoughts, our hopes, our wishes to the wants and the en- 
joyments of our animal existence, and that, amid the grand 
and the sublime of nature, we may learn from the spirit 
within us that we are better than the beasts that perish ! " 

I looked up to the animated countenance and flashing- 
eyes of my companion, and wondered what sort of a peas- 
ant it was I had met with. " Wild and beautiful as the 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 73 

scene is," I said, "you will find, even among those who 
arrogate to themselves the praise of wisdom and learning, 
men who regard such scenes as mere errors of nature. 
Burnett would have told you that a Dutch landscape, with- 
out hill, rock, or valley, must be the perfection of beauty, 
seeing that Paradise itself could have furnished nothing 
better." 

" I hold Milton as higher authority on the subject," said 
ray companion, " than all the philosophers who ever wrote. 
Beauty is a tame, unvaried flat, where a man would know 
his country only by the milestones ! A very Dutch para- 
dise, truly ! " 

" But would not some of your companions above,'* I 
asked, " deem the scene as much an error of nature as 
Burnet himself? They could pass over these stubborn 
rocks neither plough nor harrow." 

"True," he replied; "there is a species of small wisdom 
in the world that often constitutes the extremest of its 
folly, — a wisdom that would change the entire nature of 
good^ had it but«the power, by vainly endeavoring to ren- 
der that good universal. It would convert the entire 
earth into one vast corn-field, and then find that it had 
ruined the species by its improvement." 

" We of Scotland can hardly be ruined in that way for 
an age to come," I said. "But I am not sure that I 
understand you. Alter the very nature of good in the 
attempt to render it universal ! How ? " 

" I dare say you have seen a graduated scale," said my 
companion, " exhibiting the various powers of the different 
musical instruments, and observed how some of limited 
scope cross only a few of the divisions, and how others 
stretch nearly from side to side. 'Tis but a pooiv truism, 
perhaps, to say that similar difierences in scope and power 
7 



74 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

obtain among men, — that there are minds who could not 
join in the concert of to-night, — who could see neither 
beauty nor grandeur amid these wild cliffs and caverns, or 
in that glorious expanse of sea and sky ; and that, on the 
other hand, there are minds so finely modulated — minds 
that sweep so broadly across the scale of nature — that 
there is no object, however minute, no breath of feeling, 
however faint, that does not awaken their sweet vibrations : 
the snow-flake filling in the stream, the daisy of the field, 
the conies of the rock, the hyssop of the wall. Now, the 
vast and various frame of nature is adapted, not to the 
lesser, but to the larger mind. It spreads on and around, 
us in all its rich and magnificent variety, and finds the 
full portraiture of its Proteus-like beauty in the mirror of 
genius alone. Evident, however, as this may seem, we 
find a sort of levelling principle in the inferior order of 
minds, and which, in fact, constitutes one of their grand 
characteristics, — a principle that would fain abridge the 
scale to their own narrow capabilities, that would cut 
down the vastness of nature to suit the littleness of their 
own conceptions and desires, and convert it into one tame, 
uniform mediocre good, which would be good but to them- 
selves alone, and ultimately not even that." 

"I think I can now understand you," I said. "Yon de- 
scribe a sort of swinish wisdom, that would convert the 
world into one vast stye. For my own part, I have trav- 
elled far enough to knoAV the value of a blue hill, and 
would not willingly lose so much as one of these landmarks 
of our mother land, by which kindly hearts in distant 
countries love to remember it." 

"I dare say we are getting fanciful," rejoined my com- 
panion V " but certainly, in man's schemes of improvement, 
both physical and moral, there is commonly a littleness 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 75 

and want of adaptation to the general good that almost 
always defeats his aims. He sees and understands but a 
minute portion ; it is always some partial good he would 
introduce ; and thus he but destroys the just proportions 
of a nicely-regulated system of things, by exaggerating one 
of the i^arts. I jDassed of late through a richly-cultivated 
district of country, in which the agricultui-al improver had 
done his utmost. Never were there finer fields, more 
convenient steadings, crops of richer promise, a better 
regulated system of production. Corn and cattle had 
mightily improved ; but what had man, the lord of the soil, 
become ? Is not the body better than food, and life than 
raiment ? If that decline for which all other things exist, 
it surely matters little that all these other things prosper. 
And here, though the corn, the cattle, the fields, the 
steadings had imjDroved, man had sunk. There are but 
two classes in the district : a few cold-hearted specula- 
tors, who united what is worst in the character of the 
landed proprietor and the merchant, — these were young 
gentleman farmers; and a class of degraded helots, little 
superior to the cattle they tended, — these were your 
farm-servants. And for two such extreme classes — ne- 
cessary result of such a state of thing — had this unfortu- 
nate though highly eulogized district parted with a moral, 
intelligent, high-minded peasantry, — the true boast and 
true riches of their country." 

"I have, I think, observed something like what you 
describe," I said. 

" I give," he replied, " but one instance of a thousand. 
But mark how the sun's lower disk has just reached the 
line of the horizon, and how the long level rule of light 
stretches to the very innermost recess of the cave. It 
darkens as the orb sinks. And see how the gauze-like 



76 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

shadows creep on from the sea, film after film ; and now 
they have reached the ivy that mantles round the castle 
of the Bruce. Are you acquainted with Barbour ? " 

" Well," I said ; — "a spirited, fine old fellow, who 
loved his country, and did much for it. I could once 
repeat all his chosen passages. Do you remember how 
he describes King Robert's rencounter with the English 
knight ? " 

My companion sat up erect, and, clenching his fist, 
began repeating the passage, with a power and animation 
that seemed to double its inherent energy and force. 

" Glorious old Barbour ! " ejaculated he, when he had 
finished the description; "many a heart has beat all the 
higher, when the bale-fires were blazing, through the tu- 
torage of thy noble verses ! Blind Harry, too, — what has 
not his country owed to him ! " 

" Ah, they have long since been banished from our pop- 
ular literature," I said ; " and yet Blind Henry's ' Wallace,' 
as Hailes tells us, was at one time the very Bible of the 
Scotch. But love of country seems to be old-fashioned 
among us ; and we have become philosophic enough to set 
up for citizens of the world." 

" All cold pretense," rejoined ray companion, — " an 
efiect of that small wisdom we have just been decrying. 
Cosmopolitism, as we are accustomed to define it, can be 
no virtue of the present age, nor yet of the next, nor per- 
haps for centuries to come. Even when it shall have at- 
tained to its best, and when it may be most safely indulged 
in, it is according to the nature of man that, instead of 
running counter to the love of country, it should exist as 
but a wider diffusion of the feeling, and form, as it were, a 
wider circle round it. It is absurdity itself to oppose the 
love of our country to that of our race." 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 77 

" Do I rightly understand you ? " I said. " You look 
forward to a time when the patriot may safely expand 
into the citizen of the world ; but in the present age he 
would do well, you think, to confine his energies within 
the inner circle of the country." 

" Decidedly," he rejoined. "Man should love his species 
at all times ; but it is ill with him if, in times like the 
present, he loves not his country more. The spirit of war 
and aggression is yet abroad ; there are laws to be estab- 
lished, rights to be defended, invaders to be repulsed, 
tyrants to be deposed. And who but the patriot is equal 
to these things ? We are not yet done with the Bruces, 
the Wallaces, the Tells, the Washingtons, — yes, the 
Washingtons, whether they fight for or against us, — we 
are not yet done with them. The cosmopolite is but a 
puny abortion, — a birth ere the natural time, — that at 
once- endangers the life and betrays the weakness of the 
country that bears him. Would that he were sleeping in 
his elements till his proper time! But we are getting 
ashamed of our country, of our language, our manners, our 
music, our literature ; nor shall we have enough of the old 
spirit left us. to assert our liberties or fight our battles. 
Oh for some Barbour or Blind Harry of the present day, 
to make us once more proud of our country ! " 

I quoted the famous saying of Fletcher of Salton, — 
" Allow me to make the songs of a country, and I will 
allow you to make its laws." 

"But here," I said, "is our lugger stealing round Turn- 
berry Head. We shall soon part, perhaps for ever; and 1 
w^ould fain know with whom I have spent an hour so 
agreeably, and have some name to remember him by. My 
own name is Matthew Lindsay. I am a native of Iiwine." 
7* 



78 TALES AXD SKETCHES. 

"And I," said the young man, rising and cordially- 
grasping the proiFered hand, " am a native of Ayr. My 
name is Robert Burns." 



CHAPTER' II. 

If friendless, low, we meet together, 

Then, Sir, your hand, — my friend and brother. 

Dedication to G. Hamilton. 

A LIGHT breeze had risen as the sun sank, and our lug- 
ger, with all her sails set, came sweeping along the shore. 
She had nearly gained the little bay in front of the cave, 
and the countrymen from above, to the number of jjefhaps 
twenty, had descended to the beach, when, all of a sudden, 
after a shrill whistle, and a brief half-minute of commotion 
among the crew, she wore round and stood out to sea. I 
turned to the south, and saw a square-rigged vessel shoot- 
ing out from behind one of the rocky headlands, and then 
bearing down in a long tack on the smuggler. "The 
sharks are upon us," said one of the countrymen, whose 
eyes had turned in the same direction ; " we shall have no 
sport to-night." We stood lining the beach in anxious 
curiosity. The breeze freshened as the evening fell ; and 
the lugger, as she lessened to our sight, went leaning 
against the foam in a long bright furrow, that, catching 
the last light of evening, shone like the milky-way amid 
the blue. Occasionally we could see the flash and hear 
the booming of a gun from the other vessel; but the 
night fell thick and dark ; the waves, too, began to lash 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 79 

against the rocks, drowning every feebler sound in a con- 
tinuous roaring, and every trace of both the chase and the 
chaser disappeared. The party broke up, and I was left 
standing alone on the beach, a little nearer home, but in ev- 
ery other respect in quite the same circumstances as when 
landed by my American friends on the wild coast of Con- 
naught. "Another of Fortune's freaks!" I ejaculated; 
"but 'tis well she can no longer surprise me." 

A man stepped out in the dai'kness, as I spoke, from 
beside one of the rocks. It was the peasant Burns, my 
acquaintance of the earlier part of the evening. 

" I have waited, Mr. Lindsay," he said, " to see whether 
some of the country folks here, who have homes of their 
own to invite you to, might not have brought you along 
with them. But I am afraid you must just be content to 
pass the night with me. I can give you a share of ray 
bed" and my supper; though both, I am aware, need many 
apologies." I made a suitable acknowledgment, and we 
ascended the cliff together. " I live, when at home, with 
my parents," said my companion, "in the inland parish 
of Tarbolton ; but for the last two months I have attended 
school here, and lodge with an old widow-AVoman in the 
village. To-morrow, as harvest is fast approaching, I 
return to my father." 

"And I," I replied, "shall have the pleasure of accom- 
panying you at least the early part of your journey, on 
my way to Irvine, where my mother still lives." 

"We reached the village, and entered a little cottage, that 
presented its gable to the street and its side to one of the 
narrower lanes. 

"I must introduce you to my landlady," said my com- 
panion — "an excellent, kind-hearted old woman, with a 
fund of honest Scotch pride and shrewd good sense in her 



80 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

composition, and with the mother as strong in her heart 
as ever, though she lost the. List of her children more than 
twenty years ago." 

We found the good woman sitting beside a small but 
very cheerful fire. The hearth was newly swept, and the 
floor newly sanded ; and, directly fronting her, there was 
an empty chair, which seemed to have been drawn to its 
place in the expectation of some one to fill it. 

" You are going to leave me, Robert, ray bairn," said 
the woman, "an' I kenna how I sail ever get on without 
you. I have almost forgotten, sin' you came to live with 
me that I have neither children nor husband." On 
seeing me she stopped short. 

" An acquaintance," said my companion, " whom I 
have made bold to bring with me for the night; but you 
must not put yourself to any trouble, mother; he is, I 
dare say, as much accustomed to plain fare as myself 
Only, however, we must get an additional pint of yill 
from the clachan ; you know this is my last evening with 
you, and was to be a merry one, at any rate." The 
woman looked me full in the face. 

" Matthew Lindsay ! " she exclaimed, " can you have 
forgotten your poor old aunt Margaret!" I grasped her 
hand. 

"Dearest aunt, this is surely most unexpected! How 
could I have so much as dreamed you were within a 
hundred miles of me ?" Mutual congratulation ensued. 

" This," she said, turning to my companion, " is the 
nephew I have so often told you about, and so often 
wished to bring you acquainted with. He is, like yourself, 
a great reader and a great thinker, and there is no need 
that your proud, kindly heart should be jealous of him ; 
for he has been ever quite as poor, and maybe the poorer 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 81 

of the two." After still moi"e of greeting and congratu- 
lation, the young man rose. 

" The night is dark, mother," he said, " and the road 
to the clachan a rough one. Besides, you and your 
kinsman will have much to say to one another. I shall 
just slip out to the clachan for you ; and you shall both 
tell me, on my return, whether I am not a prime judge 
of ale." 

" The kindest heart, Matthew, that ever lived," said my 
relative, as he left the house. "Ever since he came to 
Kirkoswald he has been both son and daughter to me, 
and I shall feel twice a widow when he goes away." 

"I am mistaken, aunt," I said, "if he be not the 
strongest-minded man I ever saw. Be assured he stands 
high among the aristocracy of nature, whatever may be 
thought of him in Kirkoswald. There is a robustness of 
intellect, joined to an overmastering force of character, 
about him, which I have never yet seen equalled, though I 
have been intimate with at least one -very superior mind, 
and with hundreds of the class who pass for men of 
talent. I have been thinking, ever since I met with him, 
of the "William Tells and William "Wallaces of history, men 
who, in those times of trouble which unfix the foundations 
of society, step out from their obscurity to rule the destiny 
of nations." 

" I was ill about a month ago," said my relative, — " so 
very ill that I thought I was to have done with the world 
altogether ; and Robert was both nurse and physician to 
me. He kindled my fire, too, every morning, and sat up 
beside me sometimes for the greater part of the night. 
"What wonder I should love him as my own child ? Had 
your cousin Henry been spared to me, he would now have 
been much about Robert's age." 






82 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

The conversation passed to other matters; and in about 
half an hour ray new friend entered the room, when we 
sat down to a homely but cheerful repast. 

" I have been engaged in argument for the last twenty 
minutes with our parish schoolmaster," he said, — "a 
shrewd, sensible man, and a prime scholar, but one of the 
most determined Calvinists I ever knew. Now, there is 
something, Mr. Lindsay, in abstract Calvinism that dis- 
satisfies and distresses me ; and yet, I must confess, there 
is so much of good in the working of the system, that I 
would ill like to see it suj^planted by any other. I am 
convinced, for instance, there is nothing so efficient in 
teaching the bulk of a people to think as a Calvinistic 
church." 

"Ah, Robert," said my aunt, "it does meikle mair nor 
that. Look round you, my bairn, an' see if there be a 
kirk in which puir sinful creatures have mair comfort in 
their sufferings, or mair hope in their deaths." 

" Dear mother," said my companion, " I like well 
enough to dispute with the schoolmaster, but I must have 
no dispute with you. I know the heart is everything in 
these matters, and yours is much wiser than mine." 

" There is something in abstract Calvinism," he con- 
tinued, " that distresses me. In almost all our researches, 
we arrive at an ultimate barrier which interposes its wall 
of darkness between us and the last grand truth in the 
series, which we had trusted was to prove a master-key to 
the whole. We dwell in a sort of Goshen : there is light 
in our immediate neighborhood, and a more than Egyp- 
tian darkness all around ; and as every Hebrew must save 
known that the hedge of cloud which he saw resting on 
the landscape was a boundary, not to things themselves, 
but merely to his view of things, — for beyond there 



IIECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 83 

were cities and plains and oceans and continents, — so we 
in like manner must know that the barriers of which I speak 
exist only in relation to the faculties which we employ, not 
to the objects on which we employ them. And yet, not- 
withstanding this consciousness that we are necessarily and 
irremediably the bound prisoners of ignorance, and that all 
the great truths lie outside our prison, we can almost be 
content that in most cases it should be so ; not, however, 
with regard to those great unattainable truths which lie in 
the track of Calvinism. They seem too important to be 
wanted, and yet Avant them we must ; and we beat our 
very heads against the cruel barrier which separates ns 
from them." 

" I am afraid I hardly understand you," I said. " Do 
assist me by some instance or illustration." 

" You are acquainted," he replied, " with the Scripture 
doctrine of predestination ; and, in thinking over it in 
connection with the destinies of man, it must have struck 
you that, however much it may interfere with our fixed 
notions of the goodness of Deity, it is thoroughly in 
accordance with the actual condition of our race. As far 
as we can know of ourselves and the things around us, 
there seems, through the will of Deity, — for to what 
else can we refer it ? — a fixed, invariable connection 
between what we term cause and eflTect. Nor do we 
demand of any class of mere effects, in the inanimate or 
irrational world, that they should regulate themselves 
otherwise than the causes which produce them have de- 
termined. The roe and the tiger pursue, unquestioned, 
the instincts of their several natures ; the cork rises, and 
the stone sinks ; and no one thinks of calling either to 
account for movements so apposite. But it is not so with 
the family of man ; and yet our minds, our bodies, our 






84 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

circumstances are but combinations of effects, over the 
causes of which we have no control. We did not choose 
a country for ourselves, nor yet a condition in life ; nor 
did we determine our modicum of intellect, or our amount 
of passion ; we did not impart its gravity to the weightier 
part of our nature, or give expansion to the lighter ; 
nor are our instincts of our own planting. How, then, 
being thus as much the creatures of necessity as the 
denizens of the wild and forest, — as thoroughly under 
the agency of fixed, unalterable causes as the dead 
matter around us, — why are we yet the subjects of a 
retributive systerq, and accountable for all our actions ? " . 

" You quarrel with Calvinism," I said ; " and seem one 
of the most thoroughgoing necessitarians I ever knew." 

"Not so," he replied, "Though my judgment cannot 
disjDrove these conclusions, my heart cannot acquiesce in 
them ; though I see that I am as certainly the subject of 
laws that exist and operate independent of my will as the 
dead matter around me, I feel, with a certainty quite as 
great, that I am a free, accountable creature. It is accord- 
ing to the scope of my entire reason that I should deem 
myself bound ; it is according to the constitution of my 
whole nature that I should feel myself free. And in this 
consists the great, the fearful problem, — a problem which 
both reason and revelation propound ; but the truths which 
can alone solve it seem to lie beyond the horizon of dark- 
ness, and we vex ourselves in vain. 'Tis a sort of moral 
asymptote ; but its lines, instead of approaching through all 
space without meeting, seem receding through all space 
and yet meet." 

" Robert, my bairn," said my aunt, " I fear you are 
wasting your strength on th^se mysteries, to your ain 
hurt. Did ye no see, in the last storm, when ye staid 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 85 

out among the caves till cock-crow, that the bigger and 
stronger the wave, the mair was it broken against the 
rocks? It's just thus wi' the pride o' man's understand- 
ing, when he measures it against the dark things o' God. 
An' yet, it's sae ordered that the same wonderful truths 
which perplex an' cast down the proud reason, should 
delight an' comfort the humble heart. I am a lone, puir 
woman, Robert. Bairns and husband have gone down to 
the grave, one by one ; an' now, for twenty weary years, 
I have been childless an' a widow. But trow ye that the 
puir lone woman wanted a guard, an' a comforter, an' a 
provider, through a' the lang mirk nichts and a' the cauld 
scarce winters o' these twenty years ? No, my bairn ; I 
kent that Himsel' was wi' me. I kent it by the provision 
He made, an' the care He took, an' the joy He gave. An' 
how, think you, did He comfort me maist? Just by the 
blessed assurance that a' ray trials an' a' my sorrows were 
nae hasty chance matters, but dispensations for my gude 
and the gude o' those He took to Himsel' ; that, in the 
perfect love and wisdom o' his nature, He had ordained 
frae the beginning." 

" Ah, mother," said my friend, after a pause, " you un- 
derstand the doctrine far better than I do. There are, I 
find, no contradictions in the Calvinism of the heart." 
8 



86 TALES AND SKETCHES. 



CHAPTER III. 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods thick'ning green ; 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar 

Twined, amorous, round the raptured scene; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

To Mary in Heaven. 

We were early on the road together. The day, though 
somewhat gloomy, was mild and pleasant ; and we walked 
slowly onward, neither of lis in the least disposed to 
hasten our parting by hastening our journey. "We had 
discussed fifty different topics, and were prepared to enter 
on fifty more, when we reached the ancient burgh of Ayr, 
where our roads separated. 

"I have taken an immense liking to you, Mr. Lindsay," 
said my companion, as he seated himself on the parapet 
of the old bridge, "and have just bethought me of a 
scheme through which I may enjoy your company for at 
least one night more. The Ayr is a lovely river, and you 
tell me you have never explored it. We shall explore it 
together this evening for about ten miles, when we shall 
find ourselves at the farm-house of Lochlea. You may 
depend on a hearty welcome from my father, whom, by 
the way, I wish much to introduce to you, as a man worth 
your knowing ; and as I have set my heart on the scheme, 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 87 

you are surely too good-natured to disappoint me." Lit- 
tle risk of that, I thought. I had, in fact, become thor- 
oughly enamored of the warm-hearted benevolence and 
fascinating conversation of my companion, and acquiesced 
with the best good-will in the world. 

We had threaded the course of the river for several 
miles. It runs through a wild pastoral valley, roughened 
by thickets of copsewood, and bounded on either hand by 
a line of swelling, moory hills, with here and there a few 
irregular patches of corn, and here and there some little 
nest-like cottage peeping out from among the wood. The 
clouds, which during the morning had obscured the entire 
face of the heavens, were breaking up their array, and the 
sun was looking down in twenty different places through 
the openings, checkering the landscape with a fantastic 
though lovely carpeting of light and shadow. Before us 
there rose a thick wood, on a jutting promontory, that 
looked blue and dark in the shade, as if it wore mourning; 
while the sunlit stream beyond shone thi-ough the trunks 
and branches like a river of fire. At length the clouds 
seemed to have melted in the blue, — for there was not a 
bi-eath of wind to speed them away, — and the sun, now 
hastening to the west, shone in unbroken effulgence over 
the wide extent of the dell, lighting up stream and wood 
and field and cottage in one continuous blaze of glory. 
We had walked on in silence for the last half-hour ; but I 
could sometimes hear my companion muttering as he 
went ; and when, in passing through a thicket of haw- 
thorn and honeysuckle, we started from its perch a linnet 
that had been filling the air with its melody, I could hear 
him exclaim, in a subdued tone of voice, " Bonny, bonny 
birdie ! why hasten frae me ? I wadua skaith a feather 



88 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

o' yer wing." He turned round to me, and I could see 
that his eyes were swimming in moisture. 

"Can he be other," he said, " than a good and benevo- 
lent God who gives us moments like these to enjoy ? O, 
my friend ! without these sabbaths of the soul, 'that come 
to refresh and invigorate it, it would dry up within us ! 
How exquisite," he continued, " how entire, the sympathy 
which exists between all that is good and fair in external 
nature and all of good and fair that dwells in our own ! 
And oh, how the heart expands and lightens ! The 
world is as a grave to it, a closely-covered grave ; and 
it shrinks and deadens and contracts all its holier and 
more joyous feelings under the cold, earth -like pressure. 
But amid the grand and lovely of nature, — amid these 
forms and colors of richest beaiity, — there is a disin- 
terment, a resurrection, of sentiment; the pressure of our 
earthly part seems removed ; and those senses of the 
mind, if I may so speak, which serve to connect our spirits 
with the invisible world around us, recover their proper 
tone, and perform their proper office." 

" Senses of the mind ! " I said, repeating the phrase ; 
" the idea is new to me ; but I think I can catch your 
meaning." 

" Yes ; there are, there must be such," he continued, , 
with growing enthusiasm. " Man is essentially a reli- 
gious creature, a looker beyond the grave, fi'om the very 
constitution of his mind ; and the sceptic who denies it is 
untrue not merely to the Being who has made and who 
preserves him, but to the entire scope and bent of his 
own natui'e besides. Wherever man is, — whether he be 
a wanderer of the wild forest or still wilder desert, — a 
dweller in some lone isle of the sea, or the tutored and 
full-minded denizen of some blessed land like our own ; — 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 89 

wherever man is, there is religion ; hopes that look for- 
ward and upward ; the belief in an unending existence 
and a land of separate souls." 

I was carried away by the enthusiasm of my companion, 
and felt for the time as if my mind had become the mirror 
of his. There seems to obtain among men a species of 
moral gravitation, analogous in its principles to that 
which regulates and controls the movements of the 
planetary system. The larger and more ponderous any 
body, the greater its attractive force, and the more over- 
powering its influence over the lesser bodies which 
surround it. The earth we inhabit carries the moon 
along with it in its course, and is itself subject to the 
immensely more powerful influence of the sun. And it 
is thus with character. It is a law of our nature, as 
certainly as of the system we inhabit, that the infe- 
rior should yield to the superior, and the lesser owe its 
guidance to the greater. I had hitherto wandered on 
through life almost unconscious of the existence of this 
law ; or, if occasionally rendered half aware of it, it was 
only thi'ough a feeling that some secret influence was 
operating favorably in my behalf on the common minds 
around me. I now felt, however, for the first time, that 
I had come in contact with a mind immeasurably more 
powerful than my own. My thoughts seemed to cast 
themselves into the very mould, my sentiments to mod- 
ulate themselves by the very tone, of his. And yet 
he was but a russet-clad peasant, — my junior by at 
least eight years, — who was returning from school to 
assist his father, an humble tacksman, in the labors of 
the approaching harvest. But the law of circumstance, 
so arbitrary in ruling the destinies of common men, 
exerts but feeble control over the children of genius. 



90 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

The j^rophet went forth 'coramissioned by heaven to 
anoint a king over Israel ; and the choice fell on a 
shepherd-boy, who was tending his father's flocks in the 
field. 

We had reached a lovely bend of the stream. There 
was a semicircular inflection in the steep bank, which 
waved over us, from base to summit, with hawthorn and 
hazel ; and while one half looked blue and dark in the 
shade, the other was lighted up with gorgeous and fiery 
splendor by the sun, now fast sinking in the west. The 
effect seemed magical. A little glassy platform, that 
stretched between the hanging wood and the stream, was 
whitened over with clothes, that looked like snow-wreaths 
in the hollow ; and a young and beautiful girl watched 
beside them. 

"Mary Campbell!" exclaimed my companion; and in 
a moment he was at her side, and had grasped both 
her hands in his. " How fortunate, how very fortunate 
I am!" he said; "I could not have so jnuch as hoped to 
have seen you to-night, and yet here you are ! This, Mr. 
Lindsay, is a loved friend of mine, whom I have known 
and valued for years, — ever, indeed, since we herded our 
sheep together under the cover of one plaid. Dearest 
Mary, I have had sad forebodings regarding you for the 
whole last month I was in Kirkoswald ; and yet, after all 
my foolish fears, here you are, ruddier and bonnier than 
ever." 

She was, in truth, a beautiful, sylph-like young woman, 
— one whom I would have looked at with complacency 
in any circumstances ; for who that admires the fair and 
lovely in nature, whether it be the wide-spread beauty 
of sky and earth, or beauty in its minuter modifications, 
'as we see in the flowers that spring up at our feet, or the 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 91 

butterfly that flutters over them, — who, I say, that ad- 
mires the fair and lovely iu nature, can be indifierent to 
the fairest and loveliest of all her productions ? As the 
mistress, however, of by far the strongest-minded man I 
ever knew, there was more of scrutiny in my glance than 
usual, and I felt a deeper interest in her than mere beauty 
could have awakened. She was perhaps rather below 
than above the middle size, but formed in such admirable 
proportion that it seemed out of place to think of size in 
reference to her at all. Who, in looking at the Venus de 
Medicis, asks whether she be tall or short ? The bust and 
neck were so exquisitely moulded that they reminded me of 
Burke's fanciful remark, viz. that our ideas of beauty orig- 
inate in our love of the sex, and that we deem every object 
beautiful which is described by soft waving lines, resem- 
bling those of the female neck and bosom. Her feet and 
arms, which were both bare, had a statue-like symmetry 
and marble-like whiteness. But it was on her expressive 
and lovely countenance, now lighted up by the glow of 
joyous feeling, that nature seemed to have exhausted her 
utmost skill. There was a fascinating mixture in the ex- 
pression of superior intelligence and child-like simplicity; 
a soft, modest light dwelt in the blue eye ; and in the en- 
tire contour and general form of the features there was a 
nearer approach to that union of the straight and the 
rounded — which is found in its perfection in only the 
Grecian face — than is at all common, in our northern lat- 
itudes, among the descendants of either the Celt or the 
Saxon. I felt, however, as I gazed, that, when lovers meet, 
the presence of a third person, however much the friend of 
either, must always be less than agreeable. 

"Mr. Burns," I said, "there is a beautiful eminence a 
few hundred yards to the right, from which I am desirous 



92 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

to overlook the windings of the stream. Do permit me to 
leave you for a short half-hour, when I shall return ; or, 
lest I weary you by my stay, 'twere better, perhaps, you 
should join me there." My companion greeted the pro- 
posal with a good-humored smile of intelligence ; and, 
plunging into the wood, I left him with his Mary. The 
sun had just set as he joined me. 

" Have you ever been in love, Mr. Lindsay ? " he said. 

" No, never seriously," I replied. " I am perhaps not 
naturally of the coolest temperament imaginable, but the 
same fortune that has improved my mind in some little 
degree, and given me high notions of the sex, has hitherto 
thrown me among only its less superior specimens. I am 
now in my eight-and-twentieth year, and I have not yet 
met with a woman whom I could love." 

"Then you are yet a stranger," he rejoined, "to the 
greatest happiness of which our nature is capable. I have 
enjoyed more heartfelt pleasure in the company of the 
young woman I have just left, than from every other 
source that has been opened to me from my childhood till 
now. Love, my friend, is the fulfilling of the whole 
law." 

"Mary Campbell, did you not call her? " I said. " She 
is, I think, the loveliest creature I have ever seen ; and I 
am much mistaken in the expression of her beauty if her 
mind be not as lovely as her person." 

" It is, it is ! " he exclaimed, — " the intelligence of an 
angel, with the simplicity of a child. Oh, the delight of 
being thoroughly trusted, thoroughly beloved, by one of 
the loveliest, best, purest-minded of all God's good crea- 
tures ! to feel that heart beating against my own, and to 
know that it beats for me only ! Never have I passed an 
evening with my Mary without returning to the world a 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 98 

better, gentler, wiser man. Love, my friend, is the fulfil- 
ling of the whole law. What are we without it? — poor, 
vile, selfish animals ; our very virtues themselves so exclu- 
sively virtues on our own behalf as to be well-nigh as 
hateful as our vices. Nothing so opens and improves the 
heart ; nothing so widens the grasp of the affections ; 
nothing half so effectually brings us out of our crust of 
self, as a happy, well-regulated love for a pure-minded, 
affectionate-hearted woman ! " 

" There is another kind of love of which we sailors see 
somewhat," I said, "which is not so easily associated with 
good." 

"Love ! " he replied. "No, Mr. Lindsay, that is not the 
name. Kind associates with kind in all nature ; and love 
— humanizing, heart-softening love — cannot be the com- 
panion of whatever is low, mean, worthless, degrading, — 
the associate of ruthless dishonor, cunning, treachery, and 
violent death. Even independent of its amount of evil as 
a crime, or the evils still greater than itself which necessa- 
rily accompany it, there is nothing that so petrifies the 
feeling as illicit connection." 

" Do you seriously think so ? " I asked. 

" Yes ; and I see clearly how it should be so. Neither 
sex is complete of itself; each was made for the other, 
that, like the two halves of a hinge, they may become an 
entire whole when united. Only think of the Scriptural 
phrase, '■'■ one flesh ''\- it is of itself a system of philosophy. 
Refinement and tenderness are of the woman ; strength 
and dignity of the man. Only observe the effects of a 
thorough separation, whether originating in accident or 
caprice. You will find the stronger sex lost in the rude- 
nesses of partial barbarism ; the gentler wrapt up in some 
I^itiful round of trivial and unmeaning occupation, — dry- 



94 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

nursing puppies, or making pin-cushions for posterity. 
But how much more pitiful are the effects when they meet 
amiss ; when the humanizing friend and companion of 
the man is converted into the light, degraded toy of an 
idle hour, the object of a sordid appetite that lives but 
for a moment, and then expires in loathing and disgust ! 
The better feelings are iced over at their source, chilled 
by the freezing and deadening contact, where there is noth- 
ing to inspire confidence or solicit esteem ; and if these 
pass not through the first, the inner circle, that circle 
within which the social affections are formed, and from 
whence they emanate, — how can they possibly flow through 
the circles which lie beyond ? But here, Mr. Lindsay, is the 
farm of Lochlea; and yonder brown cottage, beside the 
three elms, is the dwelling of my parents." 



CHAPTER IV. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad. 

Cotter's Saturday Night. 

There was a wide and cheerful circle this evening 
round the hospitable hearth of Lochlea. The father of 
my friend — a patriarchal-looking old man, with a counte- 
nance the most expressive I have almost ever seen — sat 
beside the wall, on a large oaken settle, which also 
served to accommodate a young man, an occasional visitor 
of the family, dressed in rather shabby black, whom I at 
once set down as a probationer of divinity. I had my 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 95 

own seat beside him. The bi-other of my friend — a lad 
cast in nearly the same mould of form and feature, except 
perhaps that his frame, though muscular and strongly set, 
seemed in the main less formidably robust, and his coun- 
tenance, though expressive, less decidedly intellectual — sat 
at my side. My friend had drawn in his seat beside his 
mother, — a well-formed, comely brunette, of about thirty- 
eight, whom I might almost have mistaken for his older 
sister, — and two or three younger members of the family 
were grouped behind her. The fire blazed cheerily within 
the wide and open chimney, and, throwing its strong light 
on the faces and limbs of the circle, sent our shadows 
flickering across the rafters and the wall behind. The 
conversation was animated and rational, and every one 
contributed his share. But I was chiefly interested in the 
remarks of the old man, for whom I already felt a growing 
veneration, and in those of his wonderfully gifted son. 

" Unquestionably, Mr. Burns," said the man in black, 
addressing the farmer, " politeness is but a very shadow, 
as the poet hath it, if the heart be wanting. I saw to- 
night, in a strictly polite family, so marked a j^resumption 
of the lack of that natural afiection of which politeness is 
but the portraiture and semblance, that, truly, I have been 
grieved in my heart ever since." 

" Ah, Mr. Murdoch," said the farmei*, " there is ever 
more hypocrisy in the world than in the church, and that, 
too, among the class of fine gentlemen and fine ladies who 
deny it most. But the instance" — 

" You know the family, my worthy friend," continued 
Mr. Murdoch ; " it is a very pretty one, as we say vernac- 
ularly, being numerous, and the sons highly genteel young 
men — the daughters not less so. A neighbor of the 
same very polite character, coming on a visit when I was 



96 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

among them, asked the father, in the course of the con- 
versation to which I was privy, how he meant to dispose 
of his sons ; when the father replied that he had not yet 
determined. The visitor said that, were he in his place, 
seeing they were all well-educated young men, he would 
send them abroad; to which the father objected the indu- 
bitable fact that many young men lost their health in 
foreign countries, and very many their lives. ' True,' did 
the visitor rejoin ; 'but, as you have a number of sons, it 
will be strange if some one of them does not live and 
make a fortune.' Now, Mr. Burns, what will you, who 
know the feelings of paternity, and the incalculable, and 
assuredly I may say invaluable value of human souls, 
think when I add, that the father commended the hint, as 
showing the wisdom of a shrewd man of the world ! " 

" Even the chief priests," said the old man, " pro- 
nounced it unlawful to cast into the treasury the thirty 
pieces of silver, seeing it was the price of blood ; but the 
gentility of the present day is less scrupulous. There is a 
laxity of principle among us, Mr. Murdoch, that, if God re- 
store us not, must end in the ruin of our country. I say 
laxity of principle; for there have ever been evil manners 
among us, and waifs in, no inconsiderable number broken 
loose from the decencies of society, — more, perhaps, in 
my early days than there are now. But our principles, 
at least, were sound ; and not only was there thus a 
restorative and conservative spirit among us, but, what 
was of not less importance, there was a broad gulf, like 
that in the parable, between the two grand classes, the 
good and the evil, — a gulf which, when it secured the 
better class from contamination, interposed no barrier to 
the reformation and return of even the most vile and 
profligate, if repentant. But this gulf has disappeared, 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 97 

and we are standing unconcernedly over it, on a hollow 
and dangerous marsh of neutral ground, which, in the end, 
if God open not our eyes, must assuredly give way under 
our feet." 

" To what, father," inquired my friend, who sat listen- 
ing with the deepest and most respectful attention, " do 
you attribute the change ? " 

"Undoubtedly," replied the old man, "there have been 
many causes at work ; and though not impossible, it 
would certainly be no easy task to trace them all to their 
several effects, and give to each its due place and impor- 
tance. But there is a deadly evil among us, though you will 
hear of it from neither press nor pulpit, which I am dis- 
posed to rank first in the number, — the affectation of gen- 
tility. It has a threefold influence among us : it confounds 
the grand, eternal distinctions of right and wrong, by 
erecting into a standard of conduct and opinion that hete- 
rogeneous and artificial whole which constitutes the man- 
ners and morals of the upper classes ; it severs those ties 
of affection and good-will which should bind the middle to 
the lowers orders, by disposing the one to regard what- 
ever is below them with a too contemptuous indifference, 
and by provoking a bitter and indignant, though natural 
jealousy in the other, for being so regarded ; and, finally, 
by leading those who most entertain it into habits of ex- 
pense, — torturing their means, if I may so speak, on the * 
rack of false opinion, disposing them to think, in their 
blindness, that to be genteel is a first consideration, and 
to be honest merely a secondary one, — it has the effect of 
so hardening their hearts that, like those Carthagenians of 
whom we have been lately reading in the volume Mr. 
Murdoch lent us, they offer up their very children, souls 
9 



98 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

and bodies, to the unreal, phantom-like necessities of their 
circumstances." 

" Have I not heard you remark, father," said Gilbert, 
" that the change you describe has been very marked 
among the ministers of our church ? " 

" Too marked and too striking," replied the old man ; 
" and, in affecting the respectability and usefulness of so 
important a class, it has educed a cause of deterioration 
distinct from itself, and hardly less formidable. There is 
an old proverb of our country, ' Better the head of the 
commonalty than the tail of the gentry.' I have heard 
you quote it, Robert, oftener than once, and admire its 
homely wisdom. Now, it bears directly on what I have 
to remark : the ministers of our church have moved but 
one step during the last sixty years ; but that step has 
been an all-important one. It has been from the best 
place in relation to the people, to the worst in relation to 
the aristocracy." 

" Undoubtedly, worthy Mr. Burns," said Mr. Murdoch. 
"There is great truth, according to mine own experience, 
in that which you affirm. I may state, I trust without 
over-boasting or conceit, ray respected friend, that my 
leai-ning is not inferior to that of our neighbor the clergy- 
man ; — it is not inferior in Latin, nor in Greek, nor yet 
in French literature, Mr. Burns, and probable it is he 
would not much court a competition ; and yet, when I 
last waited at the Manse regarding a necessary and essen- 
tial certificate, Mr. Burns, he did not as much as ask me 
to sit down." 

"Ah," said Gilbert, who seemed the wit of the family, 
" he is a highly respectable man, Mr. Murdoch. He has a 
fine house, fine furniture, fine carpets, — all that consti- 
tutes respectability, you know ; and his family is on visit- 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 99 

ing terms with that of the* Laird. But his credit is not so 
respectable, I hear." 

" Gilbert," said the old man, with much seriousness, " it 
is ill with a people when they can speak lightly of their 
clergymen. There is still much of sterling worth and se- 
rious piety in the Church of Scotland ; and if the influ- 
ence of its ministers be unfortunately less than it was 
once, we must not cast the blame too exclusively on them- 
selves. Other causes have been in operation. The 
church eighty years ago was the sole guide of opinion, 
and the only source of thought among us. There was, 
indeed, but one way in which a man could learn to think. 
His mind became the subject of some serious impression ; 
he applied to his Bible ; and, in the contemplation of the 
most important of all concerns, his newly-awakened facul- 
ties received their first exercise. All of intelligence, all 
of moral good in him, all that rendered him worthy of 
the name of man, he owed to the ennobling influence of 
his church ; and is it wonder that that influence should 
be all-powerful from this circumstance alone? But a 
thorough change has taken place ; — new sources of intel- 
ligence have been opened up ; we have our newspapers 
and our magazines, and our volumes of miscellaneous 
reading ; and it is now possible enough for the most culti- 
vated mind in a parish to be the least moral and the least 
religious ; and hence, necessarily, a diminished influence in 
the church, independent of the chai'acter of its ministers." 

I have dwelt too long, perhaps, on the conversation of the 
elder Burns ; but I feel much pleasure in thus develop- 
ing, as it were, my recollections of one whom his powerful- 
minded son has described — and this after an acquaint- 
ance with our Henry M'Kenzies, Adam Smiths, and Du- 
gald Stewarts — as the man most thoroughly acquainted 



100 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

with the world he ever knew. "Never, at least, have I met 
with any one who exerted a more wholesome influence, 
through the force of moral character, on those around 
him. We sat down to a plain and homely supper. The 
slave question had about this time begun to draw the at- 
tention of a few of the more excellent and intelligent 
among the people, and the elder Burns seemed deeply 
interested in it. 

"This is but homely fare, Mr. Lindsay," he said, point- 
ing to the simple viands before us, " and the apologists of 
slavery among us would tell you how inferior we are to 
the poor negroes, who fare so much better. But surely 
' man does not live by bread alone ! ' Our fathers who 
died for Christ on the hill-side and the scaffold were 
noble men, and never, never shall slavery produce such ; 
and yet they toiled as hard, and fared as meanly, as we 
their children." 

I could feel, in the cottage of such a peasant, and seated 
beside such men as his two sons, the full force of the remark. 
And yet I have heard the miserable sophism of unprinci- 
pled power against which it is directed — a sophism so 
insulting to the dignity of honest poverty — a thousand 
times repeated. 

Supper over, the family circle widened round the 
hearth ; and the old man, taking doAvn a large clasped 
Bible, seated himself beside the iron lamp which now 
lighted the apartment. There was deep silence among us 
as he turned over the leaves. Never shall I forget his 
appearance. He was tall and thin, and, though his frame 
was still vigorous, considerably bent. His features were 
high arrd massy ; the complexion still retained much of 
the freshness of youth, and the eye all its intelligence ; 
but his locks were waxing thin and gray round his high, 



RECOLLECTIONS OF EUIINS. 101 

thoughtful forehead, and the upper part of the head, which 
was elevated to an unusual height, was bald. There was 
an expression of the deepest seriousness on the countenance 
which the strong umbry shadows of the apartment served 
to heighten ; and when, laying his hand on the page, he 
half-turned his face to the cii'cle, and said, " Let us wor- 
ship God," I was impressed by a feeling of awe and rever- 
ence to which I had, alas! been a stranger for years. I 
was aflfected, too, almost to tears, as I joined in the psalm; 
for a thousand half-forgotten associations came rushing 
upon me ; and my heart seemed to swell and expand as, 
kneeling beside him when he prayed, I listened to his sol- 
emn and fervent petition that God might make manifest 
his i^ower and goodness in the salvation of man. Nor 
was the poor solitary wanderer of the deep forgotten. 

On rising from our devotions, the old man grasped me 
by the hand. "I am happy," he said, "that we should 
have met, Mr. Lindsay. I feel an interest in you, and 
must take the friend and the old man's privilege of 
giving you an advice. The sailor, of all men, stands most 
in need of religion. His life is one of continued vicissi- 
tude, of unexpected success or unlooked-for misfortune ; 
he is ever passing from danger to safety, and from safety 
to danger ; his dependence is on the ever-varying >vinds, 
his abode on the unstable waters. And the mind takes 
a peculiar tone from what is peculiar in the circumstances. 
With nothing stable in the real world around it on 
which it may rest, it forms a resting-place for itself in 
some wild code of belief. It peoples the elements with 
strange occult powers of good and evil, and does them 
homage, — addressing its prayers to the genius of the 
winds and the spirits of the waters. And thus it begets 
a religion for itself ; for what else is the professional 
9* 



102 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

siaperstition of the sailor? Substitute, my friend, for this 
— shall I call it unavoidable superstition ? — this natural 
religion of the sea, the religion of the Bible. Since you 
must be a believer in the supernatural, let your belief 
be true ; let your trust be on Him who faileth not, your 
anchor within the vail ; and all shall be well, be your 
destiny for this world what it may." 

We parted for the night, and I saw him no more. 

Next morning Robert accompanied me for several miles 
on my way. I saw, for the last half-hour, that he had 
something to commimicate, and yet knew not how to set 
about it ; and so I made a full stop. 

" You have something to tell me, Mr. Burns," I said. 
" Need I assure you I am one you are in no danger from 
tfnsting?" He blushed deeply, and I saw him, for the 
first time, hesitate and falter in his address. 

"Forgive me," he at length said; "believe me, Mr. 
Lindsay, I would be the last in the world to hurt tlie 
feelings of a friend, — a — a — but you have been left 
among us penniless, and I have a very little money which 
I have no use for, none in the least. Will you not favor 
me by accepting it as a loan ? " 

I felt the full and generous delicacy of the proposal, 
and, with moistened eyes and a swelling heai't, availed 
myself of his kindness. The sum he tendered did not 
much exceed a guinea ; but the yearly earnings of the 
peasant Burns fell, at this period of his life, rather below 
eight pounds. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 103 



CHAPTER V. 

Corbies an' clergy are a shot right kittle. 

Brigs op Ayr. 

The years passed, and I was again a dweller on the 
sea; but the ill-fortune which hacj hitherto tracked me 
like a bloodhound, seemed at length as if tired in the pur- ^K 
suit, and I was now the master of a West India trader, 
and had begun to lay the foundation of that competency 
which has secured to my declining years the quiet and 
comfort Vhicli, for the latter part of my life, it has been 
my happiness to enjoy. My vessel had arrived at Liver- 
pool in the latter part of the year 1784 ; and I had taken 
coach for Irvine, to visit my mother, whom I had not 
seen for several years. There was a change of passengers 
at every stage ; but I saw little in any of them to interest 
me till within about a score of miles of my destination, 
when I met with an old respectable townsman, a friend 
of my father's. There was but another passenger in the 
coach, a north-country gentleman from the West Indies. 
I had many questions to ask my townsman, and many to 
answer, and the time passed lightly away. 

"Can you tell me aught of the Burnses of Lochlea?" 
I inquired, after learning that my mother and my other 
relatives were well. " I met with the young man Robert 
about five years ago, and have often since asked my- 
self what special end Providence could have in view in 
making such a man." 



104 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

" I was acquainted with old William Burns," said my 
companion, " when he was gardener at Denholm, an' got 
intimate wi' his son Robert when he lived wi' us at Irvine 
a twalmonth syne. The faither died shortly ago, sairly 
straitened in his means, I'm fear'd, an' no very square wi' 
the laird ; an' ill wad he hae liked that, for an honester 
man never breathed. Robert, puir chield, is no very easy 
either." 

" In his cii'cumstances ? " I said. 

"Ay, an waur. He gat entangled wi' the kirk on an 
imlucky sculduddery bjisiness, an' has been writing bitter 
wicked ballads on a' the gude ministers in the country 
ever sinsyne. I'm vexed it's on them he suld hae fallen ; 
an' yet they hae been to blame too." 

^'" Robert Burns so entangled, so occupied ! " I ex- 
claimed ; " you grieve and astonish me." 

" We are puir creatures, Matthew," said the old man ; 
" strength an' weakness are often next-door neighbors in 
the best o' us ; nay, what is our vera strength ta'en on the 
a'e side, may be our vera weakness ta'en on the ither. 
Never was there a stancher, firmer fallow than Robert 
Burns ; an', now that he has ta'en a wrang step, puir 
chield, that vera stanchness seems just a weak want o' 
ability to yield. He has planted his foot where it lighted 
by mishanter, and a' the gude an' ill in Scotland wadna 
budge him frae the spot." 

" Dear me ! that so powerful a mind should be so friv- 
olously engaged ! Making ballads, you say ? With what 



success 



9" 



" Ah, Matthew, lad, when the sti'ong man puts out his 
strength," said my companion, " there's naething frivolous 
in the matter, be his object what it may. Robert's ballads 
are far, far aboon the best things ever seen in Scotland 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 105 

afore. We auld folk diuna ken whether maist to blame 
or praise them ; but they keep the young people laughing 
frae the a'e nuik o' the shire till the ither." 

"But how," I inquired, "have the better clergy ren- 
dered themselves obnoxious to Burns ? The laws he has 
violated, if I rightly understand you, are indeed severe, 
and somewhat questionable in their tendencies ; and even 
good men often press them too far." 

" And in the case of Robert," said the old man, " our 
clergy have been strict to the very letter. They're gude 
men, an' faithfu' ministers ; but ane o' them at least, an' he 
a leader, has a harsh, ill temper, an' mistakes sometimes 
the corruption o' the auld man in him for the proper 
zeal o' the new ane. Nor is there ony o' the ithers wha 
kent what they had to deal wi' when Robert cam' afore 
them. They saw but a proud, thrawart ploughman, that 
stood uncow'ring under the glunsh o' a haill session ; and 
so they opened on him the artillery o' the kirk, to bear 
down his pride. Wha could hae tauld them that they 
were but frushing their straw an' rotten wood against the 
iron scales o' Leviathan ? An' now that they hae dune 
their maist, the record o' Robert's mishanter is lying in 
whity-brown ink yonder in a page o' the session-buik ; 
while the ballads hae sunk deep, deej) intil the very mind 
o' the country, and may live there for hunders and 
bunders o' years." 

" You seem to contrast, in this business," I said, " our 
better with what you must deem our inferior clergy. 
You mean, do you not, the higher and lower parties in our 
church? How are they getting on now?" 

"Never Avorse," replied the old man; "an' oh, it's surely 
ill when the ministers o' peace become the very leaders 
o' contention ! But let the blame rest in the right place. 



106 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

Peace is surely a blessing frae heaven, — no a gude wark 
demanded frae man ; an' when it grows our duty to be in 
war, it's an ill thing to be in peace. Our Evangelicals are 
stan'in', puir folk, whar their faithers stood ; an' if they 
maun either fight or be beaten frae their post, why, it's 
just their duty to fight. But the Moderates are rinnin' 
mad a'thegither amang us ; signing our auld Confession 
just that they may get in til the kirk to preach against 
it ; paring the New Testament doun to the vera standard 
o' heathen Plawto ; and sinking a'e doctrine after anither, 
till they leave ahint naething but Deism that might scunner 
an infidel. Deed, Matthew, if there comena a change 
amang them, an' that suue, they'll swamp the puir kirk 
a'thegither. The cauld morality, that never made ony ane 
mair moral, tak's nae baud o' the people ; an' patronage, 
as meikle's they roose it, winna keej) up either kirk or 
manse o' itsel'. Sorry I am, sin' Robert has entered on 
the quarrel at a', it suld hae been on the wrang side." 

"One of my chief objections," I said, "to the religion 
of the Moderate party, is, that it is of no use." 

"A gey serious ane," rejoined the old man; "but 
maybe there's a waur still. I'm unco vexed for Robert, 
baith on his worthy faither's account and his ain. He's 
a fearsome fellow when ance angered, but an honest, 
warm-hearted chield for a' that ; an' there's mair sense 
in yon big head o'his than in ony ither twa in the 
country." 

" Can you tell me aught," said the north-country gen- 
tleman, addressing my companion, "of Mr. R , the 

chapel minister in K ? I was once one of his pupils 

in the far north ; but I have heard nothing of him since 
he left Cromarty." \' 

"Why," rejoined the old man, " he's just the man "that, 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 107 

mair nor a' the rest, has borne the brunt o' Robert's fear- 
some waggery. Did ye ken him in Cromarty, say ye ? " 

" He was parish schoolmaster there," said the gentle- 
man, "for twelve years; and for six of these I attended 
his school. I cannot help respecting him ; but no one 
ever loved him. Never, surely, was there a man at once 
■so unequivocally honest and so thoroughly unamiable." 

" You must have found hira a rigid disciplinarian," I said. 

" He was the most so," he replied, " from the days of 
Dionysius at least, that ever taught a school. I remember 
there was a poor fisher-boy among us, named Skinner, 
who, as is customary in Scottish schools, as you must know, 
blew the horn for gathering the scholars, and kept the cat- 
alogue and the key ; and who, in return, was educated by 
the master, and received some little gratuity from the 
scholars besides. On one occasion the key dropped out of 
his pocket ; and when the school-time came, the irascible 
dominie had to burst open the door with his foot. He 
raged at the boy with a fury so insane, and beat him so 
unmercifully, that the other boys, gathering heart in the 
extremity of the case, had to rise en masse and tear him 
out of his hands. But the curious part of the story is yet 
to come. Skinner has been a fisherman for the last twelve 
years ; but never has he been seen disengaged for a mo- 
ment, from that time to this, without mechanically thrust- 
ing his hand into the key-pocket. 

Our companion furnished us with two or three other 

anecdotes of Mr. R . He told us of a lady who was 

so overcome by sudden terror on unexpectedly seeing 
him, many years after she had quitted his school, in one 
of the pul])its of the south, that she fainted away ; and of 
another of his scholars, named M'Glashan, a robust, daring 
fellow of six feet, who, when returning to Cromarty from 



108 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

some of the colonies, solaced himself by the way with 
thoughts of the hearty drubbing with which he was to 
clear off all his old scores with the dominie. 

"Er^ his return, however," continued the gentleman, 

" Mr. R had quitted the parish ; . and, had it chanced 

otherwise, it is questionable whether M'Glashan, with all 
his strength and courage, would have gained anything in 
an encounter with one of the boldest and most powerful 
men in the country." 

Such were some of the chance glimpses which I gained 
at this time of by far the most powerful of the opponents 
of Burns. He was a good, conscientious man, but unfor- 
tunate in a harsh, violent temper, and in sometimes mis- 
taking, as my old townsman remarked, the dictates of that 
temper for those of duty. 



CHAPTER VI. 

It's hardly in a body's pow'r 
To keep at times frae being sour, 

To see how things are shared, — 
How best 'o chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And kenna how to wair't. 

Epistle to Davie. 

I VISITED my friend, a few days after my arrival in 
Irvine, at the farm-house of Mossgiel, to which, on the 
death of his father, he had removed, with his brother Gil- 
bert and his mother. I could not avoid observing that 
bis mannei-s were considerably changed. My welcome 
seemed less kind and hearty than I could have anticipated 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 109 

from the warra-heai-ted peasant of five years ago ; and there 
"was a stern and almost supercilious elevation in his bearing, 
which at first pained and offended me. I had met with 
him as he was returning from the fields after the labors of 
the day. The dusk of twiliglit had fallen ; and, though I 
had calculated on passing the evening with him at the 
farm-house of Mossgiel, so displeased was I that after 
our first greeting I had more than half changed my mind. 
The recollection of his former kindness to me, however, 
suspended the feeling, and I resolved on throwing myself 
on his hospitality for the night, however cold the welcome. 

" I have come all the way from Irvine to see you, Mr. 
Burns," I said. " For the last five years I have thought 
more of my mother and you than of any other two per- 
sons in the country. May I not calculate, as of old, on my 
supper and a bed ? " 

There was an instantaneous change in his expression. 

" Pardon me, my friend," he said, grasping my hand ; 
"I have, unwittingly, been doing you wrong. One may 
sui-ely be the master of an Indiaman, and in possession of 
a heart too honest to be spoiled by prosperity ! " 

The remark served to explain the haughty coolness of his 
manner which had so displeased me, and which was but the 
';inwillingly assumed armor of a defensive pride. 

" There, brother," he said, throwing down some plough- 
irons which he carried ; " send wee Davoc with these to the 
smithy, and bid him tell Rankin I won't be there to-night. 
The moon is rising, Mr. Lindsay ; shall we not have a 
stroll together through the coppice ? " 

" That of all things," I replied ; and, parting from Gil- 
bert, we struck into the wood. 

The evening, considering the lateness of the season, 
for winter had set in, was mild and pleasant. The moon 
10 



110 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

at full was rising over the Cumnock hills, and casting its 
faint light on the trees that rose around us, in their wind- 
ing-sheets of brown and yellow, like so many spectres, or 
that, in the more exposed glades and openings of the 
wood, stretched their long naked arms to the sky. A 
light breeze went rustling through the withered grass ; and 
I could see the faint twinkling of the falling leaves, as 
they came showering down on every side of us. 

" We meet in the midst of death and desolation," said 
my companion ; " we parted when all around us was fresh 
and beautiful. My father was with me then, and — and 
Mary Campbell ; and now " — 

" Mary I your Mary ! " I exclaimed, " the young, the 
beautiful, — alas ! is she also gone ? " 

" She has left me," he said, — " left me. Mary is in her 
grave ! " 

I felt my heart swell as the image of that loveliest of 
creatures came rising to my view in all her beauty, as I 
had seen her by the river-side, and I knew not what to 
reply. 

" Yes," continued my friend, " she is in her grave. We 
parted for a few days, to reunite, as we hoped, for ever ; 
and ere those few days had passed she was in her grave. 
But I was unworthy of her, — unworthy even then ; and 
now — But she is in her grave ! " 

I grasped his hand, " It is difficult," I said, " to bid 
the heart submit to these dispensations ; and oh, how ut- 
terly impossible to bring it to listen ! But life — your life, 
my friend — must not be passed in useless sorrow. I am 
convinced — and often have I thought of it since our last 
meeting — that yours is no vulgar destiny, though I know 
not to what it tends." 

"Downwards!" he exclaimed, "it tends downwards ! I 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. Ill 

see, I feel it. The anchor of my affection is gone, and I 
drift shoreward on the rocks." 

" 'Twere ruin," I exclaimed, "to think so ! " 
"Not half an hour ere my father died," he continued, 
"he expressed a wish to rise and sit once more in his 
chair; and Ave indulged him. But, alas! the same feeling 
of uneasiness which had prompted the wish remained with 
him still, and he sought to return again to his bed. 'It is 
not by quitting the bed or the chair,' he said, 'that I need 
seek for ease ; it is by quitting the body.' I am opj^ressed, 
Mr. Lindsay, by a somewhat similar feeling of uneasiness, 
and at times would fain cast the blame on the circumstan- 
ces in which I am placed. But I may be as far mistaken 
as my poor father. I would fain live at peace with all 
mankind ; nay, more, I would fain love and do good to them 
all ; but the villain and the oppressor come to set their 
feet on my very neck and crush me into the mii-e, and 
must I not resist ? And when, in some luckless hour, I 
yield to my passions, — to those fearful passions that must 
one day overwhelm me, — when I yield, and my whole 
mind is darkened by remorse, and I groan under the disci- 
pline of conscience, then comes the odious, abominable hyp- 
ocrite, the devourer of widows' houses and the substance 
of the orphan, and demands that my repentance be as pub- 
lic as his own detestable prayei's ! And can I do other 
than resist and expose him ? My heart tells me it was 
formed to bestow ; why else does every misery that I can- 
not relieve render me wretched? It tells me, too, it was 
formed not to receive ; why else does the proffered assis- 
tance of even a friend fill my whole soul with indignation? 
But ill do my circumstances agree with my feelings. I feel 
as if I were totally misplaced in some frolic of I^ature, and 
wander onwards, in gloom and unhappiness, for my proper 



112 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

sphere. But, alas ! these efforts of uneasy misery are but 
the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops rouftd the walls of 
his cave." 

I again began to experience, as on a former occasion, 
the o'ermastering power of a mind larger beyond compar- 
ison than my own ; but I felt it my duty to resist the in- 
fluence. " Yes, you are misplaced, my friend," I said, — 
"perhaps more decidedly so than any other man I ever 
knew ; but is not this characteristic, in some measure, of 
the whole species? We are all misplaced; and it seems 
a part of the scheme of Deity that we should work our- 
selves up to our proper sphere. In what other respect 
does man so differ from the inferior animals as in those as- 
pirations which lead him through all the progressions of 
improvement, from the lowest to the highest level of his 
nature ? " 

" That may be philosophy, my friend," he replied, " but a 
heart ill at ease finds little of comfort in it. You knew my 
father, — need I say he was one of the excellent of the 
earth, a man who held directly from God Almighty the 
patent of his honors ? I saw that father sink broken- 
hearted into the grave, the victim of legalized oppression : 
yes, saw him overborne in the long contest which his high 
spirit and his indomitable love of the right had incited • 
him to maintain, — overborne by a mean, despicable scoun- 
drel, one of the creeping things of the earth. Heaven 
knows I did my utmost to assist in the struggle. In my 
fifteenth year, Mr. Lindsay, when a thin, loose-jointed boy, 
I did the work of a man, and strained my unknit and 
overtoiled sinews as if life and death depended on the is- 
sue, till oft, in the middle of the night, I have had to fling 
myself from my bed to avoid instant suffocation, — an 
effect of exertion so prolonged and so premature. Nor 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 113 

has the man exerted himself less heartily than the boy. 
In the roughed, severest labors of the field I have never 
yet met a competitor. But my labors have been all in 
vain, I have seen the evil bewailed by Solomon, the 
righteous man falling down before the wicked." I could 
answer only with a sigh. " You are in the right," he con- 
tinued, after a pause, and in a more subdued tone : " man 
is certainly misplaced ; the present scene of things is be- 
low the dignity of both his moral and intellectual nature. 
Look around you" (we had reached the summit of a grassy 
eminence, which rose over the wood and commanded a 
pretty extensive view of the surrounding country) ; " see 
yonder scattei-ed cottages, that in the faint light rise dim 
and black amid the stubble-fields. My heart warms as I 
look on them, for I know how much of honest worth, and 
sound, generous feeling shelters under these roof-trees. 
But why so much of moral excellence united to a mere 
machinery for ministering to the ease and luxury of a few 
of pei'haps the least worthy of our species — creatures so 
spoiled by prosperity that the claim of a common nature 
has no force to move them, and who seem as miserably 
misplaced as the myriads whom they oppress? 

If I'm designed yon lordling's slave, — 

By nature's law designed, — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty and scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn? 

" I would hardly know what to say in return, my 
friend," I rejoined, " did not you yourself furnish me with 
the reply. You are groping on in darkness, and, it may 
10* 



114 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

be, unhappiness, for your proper sphere; but it is in obedi- 
ence to a great though occult law of our nature, — a law 
general, as it affects the species, in its course of onward 
progression ; particular, and infinitely more irresistible, 
as it operates on every truly superior intellect. There are 
men born to wield the destinies of nations ; nay, more, to 
stamp the impression of their thoughts and feelings on the 
mind of the whole civilized world. And by what means 
do we often find them roused to accomplish their appointed 
work? At times hounded on by sorrow and suffering, and 
this, in the design of Providence, that there may be less of 
sorrow and suffering in the world ever after; at times 
roused by cruel and maddening oppression, that the op- 
pressor may perish in his guilt, and a whole country enjoy 
the blessings of freedom. If Wallace had not suffered 
from tyranny, Scotland would not have been free." 

" But how apply the remark ? " said my companion. 

"Robert Burns," I replied, again grasping his hand, 
" yours, I am convinced, is no vulgar destiny. Your 
gi'iefs, your sufferings, your errors even, the oppressions you 
have seen and felt, the thoughts which have arisen in your 
mind, the feelings and sentiments of which it has been the 
subject, are, I am convinced, of infinitely more importance 
in their relation to your countiy than to yourself You # 
are, wisely and benevolently, placed far below your level, 
that thousands and ten thousands of your countrymen 
may be the better enabled to attain to theirs. Assert the 
dignity of manhood and of genius, and there will be less 
of wrong and oppression in the woild ever after." 

I spent the remainder of the evening in the farm-house 
of Mossgiel, and took the coach next morning for Liver- 
pool. 



RECOLLECTIONS OP BURNS. 115 



CHAPTER VII. 

His is that language of the heart 

In which the answering heart would speak, — 
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start. 

Or the smile light up the cheek; 
And his that music to whose tone 

The common pulse of man keeps time. 
In cot or castle's mirth or moan. 

In cold or sunny clime. 

American Poet. 

The love of literature, when once thoroughly awakened 
in a reflective mind, can never after cease to influence it. 
It first assimilates our intellectual part to those fine in- 
tellects which live in the world of books, and then renders 
our connection with them indispensable by laying hold 
of that social principle of our nature which ever leads us 
to the society of our fellows as our proper sphere of en- 
joyment. My early habits, by heightening my tone of 
thought and feeling, had tended considerably to narrow 
my circle of companionship. My profession, too, had led 
me to be much alone ; and now that I had been several 
years the master of an Indiaman, I was quite as fond of 
reading, and felt as deep an interest in whatever took 
place in the literary world, as when a student at St. An- 
drews. There was much in the literature of the period to 
gratify my pride as a Scotchman, The despotism, both 
political and religious, which had overlaid the energies of 
our country for more than a century, had long been re- 
moved; and the national mind had swelled and expanded 






r 



116 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

under a better system of things till its influence had 
become coextensive with civilized man. Hume had pro- 
duced bis inimitable history, and Adam Smith his won- 
derful work which was to revolutionize and new-model 
the economy of all the governments of the earth. And 
there in my little library were the histories of Henry and 
Robertson, the philosophy of Kames and Reid, the novels 
of Smollett and M'Kenzie, and the poetry of Beattie and 
Home. But if there was no lack of Scottish intellect in 
the literature of the time, there was a decided lack of 
Scottish manners ; and I knew too much of my humble 
countrymen not to regret it. True, I had before me the 
writings of Ramsay and my unfortunate friend Ferguson ; 
but there was a radical meanness in the first that low- 
ered the tone of his coloring far beneath the fi'eshness 
of truth ; and the second, whom I had seen perish, — too 
soon, alas ! for literature and his country, — had given us 
but a few specimens of, his power when his hand was 
arrested for ever. 

My vessel, after a profitable though somewhat tedious 
voyage, had again arrived at Liverpool. It was late in 
December, 1786; and I was passing the long evening in 
my cabin, engaged with a whole sheaf of pamphlets and 
magazines which had been sent me from the shore. " The 
Lounger" was at this time in course of publication. I had 
ever been an admirer of the quiet elegance and exquisite 
tenderness of M'Kenzie; and though I might not be quite 
disposed to think, with Johnson, that " the chief glory of 
every people arises from its authors," I certainly felt all 
the prouder of my country from the circumstance that so 
accomplished a writer was one of my countrymen. I had 
read this evening some of the more recent numbers, — half- 
disposed to regret, however, amid all the pleasure they af- 



RECOLLECTIOiNS OF BURNS. 117 

forded me, that the Addison of Scotland had not done for 
the manners of his country what his illustrious prototype 
had done for those of England, — when my eye fell on the 
ninety-seventh number. I read the introductory senten- 
ces, and admired their truth and elegance. I had felt, in 
the contemplation of supereminent genius, the pleasure 
which the writer describes, and my thoughts reverted to 
my two friends, — the dead and the living. " In the view 
of highly superior talents, as in that of great and stupen- 
dous objects," S9,ys the essayist, " there is a sublimity which 
fills the soul with wonder and delight, — which expands 
it, as it were, beyond its usual bounds, — and which, in- 
vesting our nature with extraordinary powers and extra- 
ordinary honors, interests our curiosity and flatters our 
pride." 

I read on with increasing interest. It was evident, 
from the tone of the introduction, that some new luminary 
had arisen in the literary horizon ; and I felt something 
like a schoolboy when, at his first play, he waits for the 
drawing up of the curtain. And the curtain at length 
rose. " The person," continues the essayist, " to whom I 
allude" — and he alludes to him as a genius of no ordi- 
nary class — "is Robert Burns, an Ayrshire j^loughman." 
The effect on my nerves seemed electrical. I clapped my 
hands and sprung from my seat. " Was I not certain of 
nt ! Did I not foresee it ! " I exclaimed, " My noble- 
minded friend, Robert Burns!" I ran hastily over the 
warm-hearted and generous critique, — so unlike the cold, 
timid, equivocal notices with which the professional critic 
has greeted, on their first appearance, so many works des- 
tined to immortality. It Avas M'Kenzie, the discriminat- 
ing, the classical, the elegant, who assured me that the 
productions of this " heaven-taught ploughman were 



118 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

fraught with the high-toned feeling and the power and 
energy of expression characteristic of the mind and voice 
of a poet," with the solemn, the tender, the sublime ; 
that they contained images of pastoral beauty which no 
other writer had ever surpassed, and strains of wild hu- 
mor which only the higher masters of the lyre had ever 
equalled ; and that the genius displayed in them seemed 
not less admirable in tracing the manners, than in painting 
the passions, or in drawing the scenery of nature. I flung 
down the essay, ascended to the deck in three huge strides, 
leaped ashore, and reached my bookseller's as he was 
shutting up for the night. 

" Can you furnish me with a copy of ' Burns's Poems,' " 
I said, " either for love or money ? " 

" I have but one copy left," replied the man, " and here 
it is." 

I flung down a guinea. " The change," I said, " I shall 
get when I am less in a hurry." 

'Twas late that evening ere I remembered that 'tis cus- 
tomary to spend at least part of the night in bed. I read 
on and on with a still increasing astonishment and delight, 
laughing and crying by turns. I was quite in a new world. 
All was fresh and unsoiled, — the thoughts, the descrip- 
tions, the images, — as if the volume I read were the first 
that had ever been written ; and yet all was easy and nat- 
ural, and appealed with a truth and force irresistible to* 
the recollections I cherished most fondly. Nature and 
Scotland met me at every turn. I had admired the 
polished compositions of Pope and Grey and Collins ; 
though I could not sometimes help feeling that, with all 
the exquisite art they displayed, there was a little addi- 
tional art wanting still. In most cases the scafiblding 
seemed incorporated with the structure which it had 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 119 

served to rear; and though certainly no scaffolding could 
be raised on surer principles, I could have wished that the 
ingenuity which had been tasked to erect it had been ex- 
erted a little further in taking it down. But the work 
before me was evidently the production of a greater artist. 
Not a fragment of the scaffolding remained, — not so much 
as a mark to show how it had been constructed. The 
whole seemed to have risen like an exhalation, and in this 
respect reminded me of the structures of Shakspeare alone. 
I read the inimitable " Twa Dogs." Here, I said, is the 
full and perfect realization of what Swift and Dryden were 
ha\'dy enough to attempt, but lacked genius to accomplish. 
Here are dogs — bona fide dogs — endowed, indeed, with 
more than human sense and observation, but true to chai'- 
acter, as the most honest and attached of quadrupeds, in 
every line. And then those exquisite touches which the 
poor man, inured to a life of toil and poverty, can alone 
rightly understand ; and those deeply-based remarks on 
character which only the philosopher can justly appreci- 
ate! This is the true catholic poetry, which addresses 
itself, not to any little circle, walled in from the rest of the 
species by some peculiarity of thought, prejudice, or con- 
dition, but to the whole human family. I read on. " The 
Holy Fair," " Hallowe'en," « The Vision," the « Address to 
the Deil," engaged me by turns; and then the strange, 
uproarious, unequalled "Death and Doctor Hornbook." 
This, I said, is something new in the literature of the 
world. Shakspeare possessed above all men the power 
of instant and yet natural transition, — frqm the lightly 
gay to the deeply pathetic, from the wild to the humor- 
ous, — but the opposite states of feeling which he induces, 
however close the neighborhood, are ever distinct and 
separate : the oil and the water, though contained in the 



120 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

same vessel, remain apart. Here, however, for the first 
time, they mix and incorporate, and yet each retains its 
whole nature and full effect. I need hardly remind the 
reader that the feat has been repeated, and with even 
more completeness, in the wonderful " Tam o' Shanter." 
I read on. "The Cotter's Saturday Night" filled my 
whole soul : my heart throbbed, and my eyes moistened ; 
and never before did I feel half so proud of my country, 
or know half so well on what score it was I did best in 
feeling proud. I had perused the entire volume, from be- 
ginning to end, ere I remembered I had not taken supper, 
and that it was more than time to go to bed. 

But it is no part of my plan to furnish a critique on the 
poems of my friend. I merely strive to recall the thoughts 
and feelings which my first perusal of them awakened, and 
this only as a piece of mental history. Several months 
elapsed from this evening ere I could hold them out from 
me suflaciently at arms' length, as it were, to judge of their 
more striking characteiistics. At times the amazing amount 
of thought, feeling, and imagery which they contained, — 
their wonderful continuity of idea, without gap or inter- 
stice, — seemed to me most to distinguish them. At times 
they reminded me, compared with the writings of smoother 
poets, of a collection of medals, which, unlike the thin pol- 
ished coin of the kingdom, retained all the significant and 
pictorial roughnesses of the original die. But when, after 
the lapse of weeks, months, years, I found them rising up 
in my heart on every occasion, as natui-ally as if they had 
been the original language of all my feelings and emotions ; 
when I felt that, instead of remaining outside my mind, 
as it were, like the writings of other poets, they had so 
amalgamated themselves with my passions, my sentiments, 
my ideas that they seemed to have become portions of my 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 121 

very self, I was led to a final conclusion regarding them. 
Their grand distinguishing characteristic is their unswerv- 
ing and perfect truth. The poetry of Shakspeare is the 
mirror of life ; that of Burns the expressive and richly- 
modulated voice of human nature. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Burns was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman from necessity; 
but — I will say \t\ — the sterling of his honest worth poverty could not 
debase; and his independent British spirit oppression might bend, but 
could not subdue. — Letter to Mr. Graham. 

I HAVE been listening for the last half-hour to the wild 
music of an ^olian harp. How exquisitely the tones rise 
and fall! now sad, now solemn; now near, now distant. 
The nerves thrill, the heart softens, the imagination awakes 
as we listen. What if that delightful instrument be ani- 
mated by a living soul, and these finely-modulated tones 
be but the expression of its feelings ! What if these dy- 
ing, melancholy cadences, which so melt and sink into the 
heart, be — what we may so naturally interpret them — 
the melodious sinkings of a deep-seated and hopeless un- 
happiness! Nay, the fancy is too wild for even a dream. 
But are thei'e none of those fine analogies which run 
through the whole of natui'e and the whole of art to sub- 
lime it into.truth ? Yes, there have been such living harps 
among us, — beings the tones of whose sentiments, the 
melody of whose emotions, the cadences of whose sor- 
rows, remain to thrill and delight and humanize our souls. 
11 



122 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

They seem born for others, not for themselves. Alas for 
the hapless companion of my early youth ! Alas for him, 
the pride of his country, the friend of my maturer man- 
hood ! But my narrative lags in its progress. 

My vessel lay in the Clyde for several weeks during the 
summer of 1794, and I found time to indulge myself in a 
brief tour along the western coasts of the kingdom from 
Glasgow to the borders. I entered Dumfries in a calm, 
lovely evening, and passed along one of the principal 
streets. The shadows of the houses on the western side 
were stretched half-way across the pavement, while on the 
side opposite the bright sunshine seemed sleeping on the 
jutting irregular fronts and high antique gables. There 
seemed a world of well-dressed comj^any this evening in 
town ; and I learned, on inquiry, that all the aristocracy of 
the adjacent country, for twenty miles round, had come in 
to attend a country ball. They went fluttering along the 
sunny side of the street, gay as butterflies, group succeed- 
ing group. On the opposite side, in the shade, a solitary 
individual was passing slowly along the pavement. I knew 
him at a glance. It was the first poet, perhaps the great- 
est man, of his age and country. But why so solitary? It 
had been told me that he ranked among his friends and 
associates many of the highest names in the kingdom, and 
yet to-night not one of, the hundreds who fluttered past 
appeared inclined to recognize him. He seemed, too, — 
bat perhaps fancy misled me, — as if care-worn and de- 
jected, — pained, perhaps, that not one among so many of 
the great should have humility enough to notice a poor 
exciseman. I stole up to him unobserved, and tapped him 
on the shoulder. There was a decided fierceness in his 
manner as he turned abruptly round ; but, as he recognized 
me, his expressive countenance lighted up in a moment, 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 128 

and I shall never forget the heartiness with which he 
grasped my hand. 

We quitted the streets together for the neighboring 
fields, and, after the natural interchange of mutual con- 
gratulations, " How is it," I inquired, " that you do not 
seem to have a single acquaintance among all the gay and 
great of the country ? " 

" I lie under quarantine," he replied, " tainted by the 
plague of Liberalism. There is not one of the hundreds 
we passed to-night whom I could not once reckon among 
my intimates." 

The intelligence stunned and irritated me. " How in- 
finitely absurd!" I said. "Do they dream of sinking you 
into a common man ? " 

"Even so," he rejoined. " Do they not all know I have 
been a gauger for the last five years ? " 

The fact had both grieved and incensed me long before. 
I knew, too, that Pye enjoyed his salary as poet laureate of 
the time, and Dibdin, the song writer, his pension of two 
hundred a year ; and I blushed for my country. 

" Yes," he continued, — the ill-assumed coolness of his 
manner giving way before his highly-excited feelings, — 
" they have assigned me my place among the mean and the 
degraded, as their best patronage ; and only yesterday, 
after an official threat of instant dismission, I was told that 
it was my business to act, not to think. God help me ! 
what have I done to provoke such bitter insult? I have 
ever discharged my miserable duty, — discharged it, Mr. 
Lindsay, however repugnant to my feelings, as an honest 
man ; and though there awaited me no promotion, I was 
silent. The wives or sisters of those whom they advanced 

over me had bastards to some of the family, and so 

their influence was necessarily greater than mine. But 



124 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

now they crush me into the very dust. I take an interest 
in the struggles of the slave for his freedom ; I express my 
ojiinions as if I myself were a free man ; and they threaten 
to starve me and my children if I dare so much as speak 
or think." 

I expressed my indignant sympathy in a few broken 
sentences, and he went on with kindling animation. 

"Yes, they would fain crush me into the very dust! 
They cannot forgive me, that, being born a man, I should 
walk erect according to my nature. Mean-spirited and 
despicable themselves, they can tolerate only the mean- 
spirited and despicable ; and were'I not so entirely in their 
power, Mr. Lindsay, I could regard them with the proper 
contempt. But the wretches can starve me and my chil- 
dren, and they hnoxo it; nor does it mend the matter that 
I knoiL\ in turn, what pitiful, miserable little creatures they 
are. What care I for the butterflies of to-night? They 
passed me without the honor of their notice ; and I, in turn, 
suffered them to pass without the honor of mine, and I am 
more than quits. Do I not know that they and I are 
going on to the fulfilment of our several destinies, — they 
to sleep in the obscurity of their native insignificance, with 
the pismires and grasshoppers of all the past ; and I to be 
whatever the millions of my unborn countrymen shall yet 
decide? Pitiful little insects of an hour! What is their 
notice to me! But I bear a heart, Mr. Lindsay, that can 
feel the pain of treatment so unworthy; and, I must con- 
fess, it moves me. One cannot always live upon the future, 
divorced from the sympathies of the present. One cannot 
always solace one's self, under the grinding despotism that 
would fetter one's very thoughts, with the conviction, how- 
ever assured, that posterity will do justice both to the op- 
pressor and the oppressed. I am sick at heart ; and, were 



RECOLLECTIONS OF liUKNS. 125 

it not for the poor little things that depend so entirely on 
my exertions, I could as cheerfully lay me down in the 
grave as I ever did in bed after the fatigues of a long day's 
labor. Heaven help me ! I am miserably unfitted to strug- 
gle with even the natural evils of existence; how nuich 
more so when these are multiplied and exaggerated by the 
proud, capricious inhumanity of man ! " 

" There is a miserable lack of right principle and right 
feeling," I said, " among our upper classes in the present 
day ; but, alas for poor human nature ! it has ever been so, 
and, I am afraid, ever will. And there is quite as much of 
it in savage as in civilized life. I have seen the exclusive 
aristocratic spirit, with its one-sided injustice, as rampant 
in a wild isle of the Pacific as I ever saw it among our- 
selves." 

" 'Tis slight comfort," said my friend, with a melancholy 
smile, "to be assured, when one's heart bleeds from the 
cruelty or injustice of our fellows, that man is naturally 
cruel and unjust, and not less so as a savage than when 
better taught. I knew you, Mr. Lindsay, when you were 
younger and less fortunate ; but you have now reached 
that middle term of life when man naturally takes up the 
Tory, and lays down the Whig ; nor has there been aught 
in your improving circumstances to retard the change; and 
so you rest in the conclusion that, if the weak among us 
suffer from the tyranny of the strong, 'tis because human 
nature is so constituted; and the case therefore cannot be 
helped." 

"Pardon me, Mr. Burns," I said; "I am not quite so 
finished a Tory as that amounts to." 

" I am not one of those fanciful declairaers," he contin- 
ued, "who set out on the assumption that man is free-born. 
I am too well assured of the contrary. Man is not frec- 
11* 



126 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

born. The earlier period of bis existence, whether as a 
puny child or the miserable denizen of an uninformed and 
barbarous state, is one of vassalage and subserviency. He 
is not born free ; he is not born rational ; he is not born 
virtuous ; he is born to become all th'ese. And woe to the 
sophist who, with arguments drawn from the iincomfirmed 
constitution of his childhood, would strive to render his 
imperfect because immature state of pupilage a permanent 
one ! AVe are yet far below the level of which our nature 
is capable, and possess, in consequence, but a small portion 
of the liberty which it is the destiny of our species to en- 
joy. And 'tis time our masters should be taught so. You 
will deem me a wild Jacobin, Mr. Lindsay ; but persecu- 
tion has the effect of making a man extreme in these mat- 
ters, Do help me to curse the scoundrels ! My business 
to act, not to think ! " 

We were silent for several minutes. 

" I have not yet thanked you, Mr. Burns," I at length 
said, " for the most exquisite pleasure I ever enjoyed. You 
have been my companion for the last eight years." 

His countenance brightened. 

"Ah, here I am, boring youAvith my miseries and ray ill- 
nature," he replied ; " but you must come along with me, 
and see the bairns and Jean, and some of the best songs I 
ever wrote. It will go hard if we hold .not care at the 
staff's end for at least one evening. You have not yet seen 
my stone punch-bowl, nor ray Tarn o' Shanter, nor a hun- 
dred other fine things besides. And yet, vile wretch that 
I am, I am sometimes so unconscionable as to be unhappy 
with them all. But come along." 

We spent this evening together with as much of happi- 
ness as it has ever been ray lot to enjoy. Never was there 
a fonder father than Burns, a more attached husband, or a 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS. 127 

warmer friend. There was an exuberance of love in his 
large heart that encircled in its flow relatives, friends, asso- 
ciates, his country, the world ; and, in his kindlier moods, 
the sympathetic influence which he exerted over the hearts 
of others seemed magical. I laughed and cried this evening 
by turjis. I was conscious of a wider and a warmer expan- 
sion of feeling than I had ever experienced before. My 
very imagination seemed invigorated, by breathing, as it 
were, in the same atmosphere with his. We parted early 
next morning ; and when I again visited Dumfries, I went 
and wept over his grave. Forty years have now passed 
since his death ; and in that time, many poets have arisen 
to achieve a rapid and brilliant celebrity ; but they seem 
the meteors of a lower sky ; the flash passes hastily from the 
expanse, and we see but one great light looking steadily 
upon us from above. It is Burns who is exclusively the 
poet of his country. Other writers inscribe their names on 
the plaster which covers for the time the outside structure 
of society ; his is engraved, like that of the Egyptian 
architect, on the ever-during granite within. The fame of 
the others rises and falls with the uncertain undulations 
of the mode on which they have reared it ; his remains 
fixed and permanent as the human nature on which it is 
based. Or, to borrow the figure Johnson employs in illus- 
trating the unfluctuating celebrity of a scarcely greater 
poet, "The sand heaped by one flood is scattered by an- 
other, but the rock always continues in its place ; the 
stream of time which is continually washing the dissoluble 
fabrics of other poets passes by, without injury, the ada- 
mant of Shakspeare." 



III. 

THE SALMON-FISHEE OF UDOLL. 

CHAPTER I. 

And the fishers shall mourn and lament; 
All those that cast the hook on the river. 
And those that spread nets on the face of the waters, 
Shall languish. 

Lowth's Translation of Isa. xix. 8. 

In the autumn of 1759, the Bay of Udoll, an arm of the 
sea which intersects the southern shore of the Frith of 
Cromarty, was occupied by two hirge salmon-wears, the 
property of one Allan Thomson, a native of the province 
of Moi-ay, who had settled in this part of the country a 
few months before. He was a thin, athletic, raw-boned 
man, of about five feet ten, well-nigh in his thirtieth year, 
but apparently younger; erect and clean-limbed, with a 
set of handsome features, bright, intelligent eyes, and a 
profusion of light brown hair curling around an ample ex- 
panse of forehead. For the first twenty years of his life 
he had lived about a farm-house, tending cattle when a 
boy, and guiding the plough when he had grown up. He 
then travelled into England, where he wrought about seven 
years as a common laborer. A novelist would scarcely 
make choice of such a person for the hero of a tale ; but 
men are to be estimated rather by the size and color of 



THE SALMON-FISHER OP UDOLL. 129 

their mincls than the complexion of their circumstances ; 
and this ploughman and laborer of the north was by no 
means a very common man. For the latter half of his life 
he had pursued, in all his undertakings, one main design. 
He saw his brother rustics tied down by circumstance — 
that destiny of vulgar minds — to a youth of toil and de- 
pendence, and an old age of destitution and wretchedness ; 
and, with a force of character which, had he been placed 
at his outset on what may be termed the table-land of for- 
tune, would have raised him to her higher pinnacles, he 
persisted in adding shilling to shilling and pound to pound, 
not in the sordid spirit of the miser, but in the hope that 
his little hoard might yet serve him as a kind of stepping- 
stone in rising to a more comfortable place in society. Nor 
were his desires fixed very high ; for, convinced- that inde- 
pendence and the happiness which springs from situation 
in life lie within the reach of the frugal farmer of sixty or 
eighty years, he moulded his ambition on the conviction, 
and scarcely looked beyond the period at which he antici- 
pated his savings would enable him to take his place among 
the humbler tenantry of the country. 

Our friths and estuaries at this period abounded with 
salmon, one of the earliest exports of the kingdom; but 
from the low state into which commerce had sunk in the 
northern districts, and the irregularity of the communica- 
tion kept up between them and the sister kingdom, by far 
the greater part caught on our shores were consumed by 
the inhabitants. And so little were they deemed a lux- 
ury, that it was by no means uncommon, it is said, for ser- 
vants to stipulate with their masters that they should not 
have to diet on salmon oftener than thrice a week. Thom- 
son, however, had seen quite enough, when in England, to 
convince him that, meanly as they were esteemed by his 



130 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

country-folks, they might be rendered the staple of a prof- 
itable trade ; and, removing to the vicinity of Cromarty, 
for the facilities it afforded in trading to the capital, he 
launched boldly into the speculation. He erected his two 
wears with his own hands ; built himself a cottage of sods 
on the gorge of a little ravine sprinkled over with bushes 
of alder and hazel ; entered into correspondence with a 
London merchant, whom he engaged as his agent ; and be- 
gan to export his fish by two large sloops which plied at 
this period between the neighboring port and the capital. 
His fishings were abundant, and his agent an honest one ; 
and he soon began to realize the sums he had expended in 
establishing himself in the trade. 

Could any one anticipate that a story of fondly-cherished 
but hapless attachment — of one heart blighted for ever, 
and another fatally broken — was to follow such an intro- 
duction ? 

The first season of Thomson's speculation had come to a 
close. Winter set in, and, with scarcely a single acquaint- 
ance among the people in the neighborhood, and little to 
employ him, he had to draw for amusement on his own re- 
sources alone. He had formed, when a boy, a taste for 
reading; and might now be found, in the long evenings, 
hanging over a book beside the fire. By day he went 
sauntering among the fields, calculating on the advantages 
of every agricultural improvement, or attended the fairs 
and trysts of the country, to speculate on the profits of the 
drover and cattle-feeder and make himself acquainted with 
all the little mysteries of bargain-making. 

There holds early in November a famous cattle-market 
in the ancient barony of Ferintosh, and Thomson had set 
out to attend it. The morning was clear and frosty, and 
he felt buoyant of heart and limb, as, passing westwards 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 131 

along the shore, he saw the huge Ben Wevis towering 
darker and more loftily over the Frith as he advanced, or 
turned aside, from time to time, to explore some ancient 
burying-ground or Danish encampment. There is not a 
tract of country of equal extent in the three kingdoms 
where antiquities of this class lie thicker than in that 
northern strip of the parish of Resolis which bounds on 
the Cromarty Frith. The old castle of Craig House, a 
venerable, time-shattered building, detained him, amid its 
broken arches, for hours ; and he was only reminded of the 
ultimate object of his journey when, on surveying the moor 
from the upper bartizan, he saw that the groups of men and 
cattle, which since morning had been mottling in succes- 
sion the track leading to the fair, were all gone out of sight, 
and that, far as the eye could reach, not a human figure 
was to be seen. The whole population of the country 
seemed to have gone to the fair. He quitted the ruins ; 
and, after walking smartly over the heathy ridge to the 
west, and through the long birch wood of Kinbeakie, he 
reached, about mid-day, the little straggling village at 
which the market holds. 

Thomson had never before attended a thoroughly High- 
land market, and the scene now presented was wholly new 
to him. The area it occupied was an irregular opening in 
the middle of the village, broken by ruts and dung-hills 
and heaps of stone. In front of the little turf-houses, on 
either side, there was a row of booths, constructed mostly 
of poles and blankets, in which much whiskey, and a few of 
the simpler articles of foreign merchandise, were sold. In 
the middle of the open space there were carts and benches, 
laden with the rude manufactures of the country : High- 
land brogues and blankets ; bowls and platters of beech ; a 
species of horse and cattle harness, formed of the twisted 



132 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

twigs of birch; bundles of split fir, for lath and torches; 
and hair tackle and nets for fishermen. Nearly seven 
thousand persons, male ^ and female, thronged the area, 
bustling and busy, and in continual motion, like the tides 
and eddies of two rivers at their confluence. There were 
country-women, with their shaggy little horses laden with 
cheese and butter; Highlanders from the far hills, with 
droves of sheep and cattle ; shoemakers and weavers from 
the neighboring villages, with bales of webs and wallets of 
shoes ; farmers and fishermen, engaged, as it chanced, in 
buying or selling; bevies of bonny lasses, attired in their 
gayest ; ploughmen and mechanics ; drovers, butchers, and 
herd-boys. Whiskey flowed abundantly, whether bargain- 
makers bought or sold, or friends met or parted ; and, 
as the day wore later, the confusion and bustle of the 
crowd increased, A Highland tryst, even in the present 
age, rarely passes without witnessing a fray ; and the High- 
landers seventy years ago were of more combative dispo- 
sitions than they are now. But Thomson, who had neither 
friend nor enemy among the thousands around him, neither 
quarrelled himself, nor interfered in the quarrels of others. 
He merely stood and looked on, as a European would 
among the frays of one of the great fairs of Bagdad or 
Astrakan. 

He was passing through the crowd, towards evening, in 
front of one of the dingier cottages, when a sudden burst 
of oaths and exclamations rose from within, and the in- 
mates came pouring out pell-mell at the door, to throttle 
and pummel one another, in inextricable confusion. A 
gray-headed old man, of great apparent strength, who 
seemed by far the most formidable of the combatants, was 
engaged in desperate battle with two young fellows from 
the remote Highlands, while all the others were matched 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 133 

man to man. Thomson, whose residence in England had 
taught him very different notions of fair play and the ring, 
was on the eve of forgetting his caution and interfering, 
but the interference proved unnecessary. Ere he had 
stepped up to the combatants, the old man, with a vigor 
little lessened by age, had shaken off both his opponents; 
and, though they stood glaring at him like tiger-cats, nei- 
ther of them seemed in the least inclined to renew the 
attack. 

" Twa mean, pitiful kerns," exclaimed the old man, "to 
tak odds against ane auld enough to be their faither ; and 
that, too, after burning my loof wi' the het airn! But I 
hae noited their twa heads thegither! Sic a trick! — to 
bid me stir up the fire after they had heated the wrang end 
o' the j^oker ! Deil, but I hae a guid mind to gie them 
baith mair o't yet ! " 

Ere he could make good his threat, however, his daugh- 
ter, a delicate-looking girl of nineteen, came rushing up to 
him through the crowd. "Father!" she exclaimed, "dear- 
est father ! let us away. For my sake, if not your own, let 
these wild men alone. They always carry knives ; and, be- 
sides, you will bring all of their clan upon you that are at 
the tryst, and you will be murdered." 

" No muckle danger frae that, Lillias," said the old man. 
"I hae little fear frae ony ane o' them ; an' if they come 
by twasome, I hae my friends here too. The ill-deedy 
wratches, to blister a' my loof wi' the poker ! But come 
awa, lassie ; your advice is, I dare say, best after a'." 

The old man quitted the place with his daughter, and 
for the time Thomson saw no more of him. As the night 
approached, the Highlanders became more noisy and tur- 
bulent ; they drank, and disputed, and drove their very 
bargains at the dirk's point ; and as the salmon-fisher 
12 



134 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

passed through the village for the last time, he could see 
the waving of bludgeons, and hear the formidable war-cry 
of one of the clans, with the equally formidable " Hilloa ! 
help for Cromarty ! " echoing on every side of him. He 
keep coolly on his way, however, without waiting the re- 
sult ; and, while yet several miles from the shores of UdoU, 
daylight had departed, and the moon at full had risen, red 
and huge in the frosty atmosphere, over the bleak hill of 
Nigg. 

He had reached the Burn of Newhall, — a small stream 
which, after winding for several miles between its double 
row of alders and its thickets of gorse and hazel, falls into 
the upper part of the bay, — and was cautiously picking 
his way, by the light of the moon, along a narrow pathway 
which winds among the bushes. There are few places in 
the country of worse repute among believers in the super- 
natural than the Burn of Newhall ; and its character sev- 
enty years ago was even worse than it is at present. Witch 
meetings without number have been held on its banks, and 
dead-lights have been seen hovering over its deeper pools ; 
sportsmen have charged their fowling-pieces with silver 
when crossing it in the night-time ; and I remember an old 
man who never approached it after dark without fixing a 
bayonet on the head of his staff. Thomson, however, was 
but little influenced by the beliefs of the period ; and he 
was passing under the shadow of the alders, with more of 
this world than of the other in his thoughts, when the 
silence was suddenly broken by a burst of threats and ex- 
clamations, as^if several men had fallen a-fighting, scarcely 
fifty yards away, without any preliminary quarrel ; and 
with the gruffer voices there mingled the shrieks and 
entreaties of a female. Thomson grasped his stick, and 
sprang forward. He reached an opening among the bushes, 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 135 

and saw in the imperfect light the old robust Lowlander 
of the previous fray attacked by two men armed with 
bludgeons, and defending himself manfully with his staff. 
The old man's daughter, who had clung round the knees 
of one of the ruffians, was already thrown to the ground, 
and trampled under foot. An exclamation of wrath and 
horror burst from the high-spirited fisherman, as, rushing 
upon the fellow like a tiger from its jungle, he caught the 
stroke aimed at him on his stick, and, with a side-long 
blow on the temple, felled him to the ground. At the in- 
stant he fell, a gigantic Highlander leaped from among the 
bushes, and, raising his huge arm, discharged a tremendous 
blow at the head of the fisherman, who, though taken un- 
awares and at a disadvantage, succeeded, notwithstanding, 
in transferring it to his left shoulder, where it fell broken 
and weak. A desperate but brief combat ensued. The 
ferocity and ponderous strength of the Celt found their 
more than match in the cool, vigilant skill and leopard- 
like agility of the Lowland Scot ; for the latter, after dis- 
chai-ging a storm of blows on the head, face, and shoulders 
of the giant, until he staggered, at length struck his 
bludgeon out of his hand, and prostrated his whole huge 
length by dashing his stick end-long against his breast. 
At nearly the same moment the burly old farmer, who had 
grappled with his antagonist, had succeeded in flinging 
him, stunned and senseless, against the gnarled root of an 
alder ; and the three ruffians — for the first had not yet 
recovered — lay stretched on the grass. Ere they could 
secure them, however, a shrill whistle was heard echoing 
from among the alders, scarcely a hundred yards aAvay. 
" We had better get home," said Thomson to the old man, 
" ere these fellows are reinforced by their brother ruffians 
in the wood." And, supporting the maiden with his one 



136 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

hand, jukI grasping his stick with the other, lio {iliingcd 
among the bushes in the direction of the path, and gaining 
it, passed onward, lightly and hurriedly, with his charge: 
the old man followed more heavily behind ; and in some- 
what less than an hour after they were all seated beside 
the hearth of the latter, in the farm-house of Meikle 
Farness. 

It is now more than forty years since the last stone of 
the very foundation has disappeax^ed ; but the little grassy 
eminence on which the house stood may still be seen. 
There is a deep wooded ravine behind, which, after wind- 
ing through the table-land of the parish, like a huge 
crooked furrow, the bed, evidently, of some antediluvian 
stream, opens far below to the sea; an undulating tract 
of field and moor, with here and there a thicket of bushes 
and here and there a heap of stone, spreads in front. 
When I last looked on the scene, 'twas in the evening of 
a pleasant day in June. One half the eminence was bathed 
in the red light of the setting sun ; the other lay brown 
and dark in the shadow. A flock of sheep were scattered 
over the sunny side. The herd-boy sat on the toj), solacing 
his leisure with a music famous in the pastoral history of 
Scotland, but well-nigh exploded, that of the stock and 
horn ; and the air seemed filled with its echoes. I stood 
picturing to myself the appearance of the place ere all the 
inmates of this evening, young and old, had gone to the 
churchyard, and left no successors behind them ; and, as I 
sighed over the vanity of human hopes, I could almost 
fancy I saw an apparition of the cottage rising on the 
knoll. I could see the dark turf- walls; the little square 
windows, barred below and glazed above ; the straw roof, 
embossed with moss and stone-crop ; and, high over head, 
the row of venerable elms, with their gnarled trunks 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 137 

and twisted branches, that rose out of the garden-wall. 
Fancy gives an interest to all her pictures, — yes, even 
when the subject is but an humble cottage; and when 
Ave think of human enjoyment, of the pi'ide of strength 
and the light of beauty, in connection with a few moul- 
dering and nameless bones hidden deep from the sun, 
there is a sad poetry in the contrast which rarely fails to 
affect the heart. It is now two thousand years since 
Horace sung of the security of the lowly, and the unfluc- 
tuating nature of their enjoyments ; and every year of the 
two thousand has been adding proof to proof that the 
poet, when he chose his theme, must have thrown aside 
his philosophy. But the inmates of the farm-house thought 
little this evening of coming misfortune. Nor would it 
have been well if they had ; their sorrow was neither 
heightened nor hastened by their joy. 

Old William Stewart, the farmer, was one of a class 
well-nigh worn out in the southern Lowlands, even at 
this period, but which still comprised, in the northern dis- 
tricts, no inconsiderable portion of the people, and which 
must always obtain in countries only partially civilized 
and little amenable to the laws. Man is a fighting animal 
from very instinct ; and his second nature, custom, mightily 
improves the propensity. A person naturally courageous, 
who has defended himself successfully in half a dozen dif- 
ferent frays, will very probably begin the seventh himself; 
and there are few who have fought often and well for 
safety and the right who have not at length learned to love 
fighting for its own sake. The old farmer had been a man 
of war from his youth. He had fought at fairs and trysts 
and weddings and funerals; and, without one ill-natured 
or malignant element in his composition, had broken more 
heads than any two men in the country-side. His late 
12* 






138 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

quarrel at the tryst, and the much more serious affai* 
among the bushes, had arisen out of this disposition ; for 
though well-nigh in his sixtieth yeax', he was still as war- 
like in his habits as ever. Thomson sat fronting him be- 
side the fire, admiring his muscular frame, huge limbs, and 
immense structure of bone. Age had grizzled his hair 
and furrowed his cheeks and forehead ; but all the great 
strength, and well-nigh all the activity of his youth, it had 
left him still. His wife, a sharp-featured little woman, 
seemed little interested in either the details of his adven- 
ture or his guest, whom he described as the " brave, hardy 
chield, wha had beaten twasome at the cudgel, — the vera 
littlest o' them as big as himsel'." 

" Och, gudeman," was her concluding remark, " ye aye 
stick to the auld trade, bad though it be ; an' I'm feared 
that or ye mend ye maun be aulder yet. I'm sure ye 
ne'er made your ain money o't." 

" Nane o' yer nonsense," rejoined the farmer. " Bring 
butt the bottle an' your best cheese." 

" The gudewife an' I dinna aye agree," continued the 
old man, turning to Thomson. " She's baith near-gaun an' 
new-fangled ; an' I like aye to hae routh o' a' things, an' to 
live just as my faithers did afore me. Why sould I bother 
my head wi' improvidments, as they ca' them? The coun- 
try's gane clean gite wi' pride, Thomson ! Naething less 
sairs folk noo, forsooth, than carts wi' wheels to them ; an' 
it's no a fortnight syne sin' little Sandy Martin, the trifling 
cat, jeered me for yoking ray owson to the jjlough by the 
tail. What ither did they get tails for ? " 

Thomson had not sufficiently studied the grand argu- 
ment of design, in this special instance, to hazard a reply. 

" The times hae gane clean oot o' joint," continued the 
man. " The law has come a' the length o' Cromarty noo ; 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 139- 

an' for breaking the head o' an impudent fallow, ane runs 
the risk o' being sent aff the plantations. Faith, I wish 
cor Parliamenters had mair sense. What do they ken 
aboot us or oor country ? Deil haet difference doo they 
mak' atween the shire o' Cromarty an' the shire o' Lunuon ; 
just as if we could be as quiet beside the red-wud Hielan- 
man here, as they can be beside the queen. Na, na, — 
naething like a guid cudgel ; little wad their law hae dune 
for rae at the Burn o' Newhall the nicht." 

Thomson found the character of the old man quite a 
study in its way; and that of his wife — a very different, 
and, in the main, inferior sort of person, for she was mean- 
spirited and a niggard — quite a study too. But by far 
the most interesting inmate of the cottage was the old 
man's daughter, the child of a former marriage. She 
was a pule, delicate, blue-eyed girl, who, without possess- 
ing much positive beauty of feature, had that expression 
of mingled thought and tenderness which attracts more 
powerfully than beauty itself. She spoke but little. That 
little, however, was expressive of gratitude and kindness to 
the deliverer of her father ; sentiments which, in the breast 
of a girl so gentle, so timid, so disposed to shrink from 
the roughnesses of active courage, and yet so conscious of 
lier need of a protector, must have mingled with a feeling 
of admiration at finding in the powerful champion of the 
recent fray a modest, sensible young man, of manners 
nearly as quiet and unobtrusive as her own. She dreamed 
that night of Thomson ; and her first thought, as she awak- 
ened next morning, was, whether, as her father had urged, 
he was to be a frequent visitor at Meikle Farness. But an 
entire week passed away, and she saw no more of him. 

He was sitting one evening in his cottage, poring over 
a book. A huge fire of brushwood was blazing against the 



140 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

earthen wall, filling the upper part of the single rude cham- 
ber of which the cottage consisted with a dense cloud of 
smoke, and glancing brightly on the few rude implements 
which occuj)ied the lower, when the door suddenly opened, 
and the farmer of Meikle Farness entered, accompanied by 
his daughter." 

" Ha ! Allan, man," he said, extending his large hand, 
and grasping that of the fisherman ; " if you winna come 
an' see us, we maun just come and see you. Lillias an' 
mysel' were afraid the gudewife had frichtened you awa, 
for she's a near-gaun sort o' body, an' maybe no owre kind- 
spoken ; but ye maun just come an' see us whiles, an' no 
mind her. Except at counting-time, I never mind her 
mysel'." Thomson accommodated his visitors with seats. 
" Yer life maun be a gay lonely ane here, in this eerie bit o' 
a glen," remarked the old man, after they had conversed 
for some time on different subjects; "but I see ye dinna 
want company a'thegither, such as it is," — his eye glanc- 
ing, as he spoke, over a set of deal shelves, occupied by 
some sixty or seventy volumes. " Lillias there has a liking 
for that kind o' company too, an' spends some days mair 
o' her time amang her books than the gudewife or mysel' 
would wish." 

Lillias blushed at the charge, and hung down her head. 
It gave, however, a new turn to the conversation : and 
Thomson was gratified to find that the quiet, gentle girl, 
who seemed so much interested in him, and whose grati- 
tude to him, expressed in a language less equivocal than 
any spoken one, he felt to be so delicious a compliment, 
possessed a cultivated mind and a superior understanding. 
She had lived under the roof of her fiither in a little para- 
dise of thoughts and imaginations, the spontaneous growth 
ot her own mind ; and as she grew up to womanhood, she 



THE SALMON-FISIIER OF UDOLL. 141 

had recourse to the companionship of books ; for in books 
only could she find thoughts and imaginations of a kin- 
dred character. 

It is rarely that the female mind educates itself The 
genius of the sex is rather fine than robust ; it partakes 
rather of the delicacy of the myrtle than the strength of 
the oak ; and care and culture seem essential to its full de- 
velopment. Who ever heard of a female Burns or Bloom- 
field ? And yet there have been instances, though rare, of 
women working their way from the lower levels of intel- 
lect to well-nigh the highest, — not wholly unassisted, 'tis 
true ; the age must be a cultivated one, and there must 
be opportunities of observation ; but, if not wholly unas- 
sisted, with helps so slendei-, that the second order of mas- 
culine minds would find them wholly ineificient. There is 
a quickness of perception and facility of adaptation in the 
better class of female minds — an ability of catching the 
tone of whatever is good from the sounding of a single 
note, if I may so express myself — which we almost never 
meet with in the mind of man. Lillias was a favorable 
specimen of the better and more intellectual order of avo- 
men ; but she was yet very young, and the process of self- 
cultivation carrying on in her mind was still incomplete ; 
and Thomson found that the charm of her society arose 
scarcely more from her partial knowledge than from her 
partial ignorance. The following night saw him seated by 
her side in the farm-house of Meikle Farncss; and scarcely 
a week passed during the winter in which he did not spend 
at least one evening in her company. 

Who is, it that has not experienced the charm of female 
conversation, — that poetry of feeling which develops all 
of tenderness and all of imagination that lies hidden in our 



142 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

nature ? When following the ordinary concerns of life, or 
engaged in its more active businesses, many of the better 
faculties of our minds seem overlaid : there is little of feel- 
ing, and nothing of fancy ; and those sympathies which 
should bind us to the good and fair of nature lie repressed 
and inactive. But in the society of an intelligent and vir- 
tuous female there is a charm that removes the pressure. 
Through the force of sympathy, we throw our intellects for 
the time into the female mould ; our tastes assimilate to the 
tastes of our companion ; our feelings keep pace with hers ; 
our sensibilities become nicer and our imaginations more 
expansive ; and, though the powers of our mind may not 
much excel, in kind or degree, those of the great bulk of 
mankind, we are sensible that for the time we experience 
some of the feelings of genius. How many common men 
have not female society and the fervor of youthful passion 
sublimed into poets ? I am convinced the Greeks dis- 
played as much sound philosophy as good taste in repre- 
senting their muses as beautiful women. 

Thomson had formerly been but an admirer of the poets. 
He now became a poet. And had his fate been a kindlier 
one, he might perhaps have attained a middle place among 
at least the minor professors of the incommunicable art. 
He was walking with Lillias one evening through the 
wooded ravine. It was early in April, and the day had 
combined the loveliest smiles of spring with the fiercer 
blasts of winter. There was snow in the hollows ; but 
where the sweeping sides of the dell reclined to the south, 
the violet and the primrose were opening to the sun. The 
drops of a recent shower were still hanging on the half- 
expanded buds, and the streamlet was yet red and turbid ; 
but the sun, nigh at his setting, was streaming in golden 
glory along the field, and a lark was carolling high in the 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 143 

air as if its day were but begun. Lillias pointed to the 
bird, diminished almost to a speck, but relieved by the red 
light against a minute cloudlet. 

" Happy little creature ! " she exclaimed ; " does it not 
seem rather a thing of heaven than of earth? Does not its 
song frae the clouds mind you of the hymn heard by the 
shepherds! The blast is but just owre, an' a few minutes 
syne it lay cowering and chittering in its nest ; but its sor- 
rows are a' gane, an' its heart rejoices in the bonny blink, 
without a'e thought o' the storm that has passed or the 
night that comes on. Were you a poet, Allan, like ony o' 
your twa namesakes, — he o' 'The Seasons,' or he o' 
' The Gentle Shepherd,' — I would ask you for a song on 
that bonnie burdie." Next time the friends met, Thomson 
produced the following verses : — 

TO THE LARK. 

Sweet minstrel of the April cloud, 

Dweller the flowers among, 
Would that my heart were formed like thine, 

And tuned like thine my song ! 
Not to the earth, like earth's low gifts, 

Thy soothing strain is given : 
It comes a voice from middle sky, — 

A solace breathed from heaven. 

Thine is the morn ; and when the sun 

Sinks peaceful in the west. 
The mild light of departing day 

Purples thy happy breast. 
And ah ! though all beneath that sun 

Dire pains and sorrows dwell. 
Rarely they visit, short they stay. 

"Where thou hast built thy cell. 

When wild winds rave, and snows descend, 

And dark clouds gather fast, 
And on the surf-encircled shore 

The seaman's barque is cast. 



144 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

Long human grief survives the storm ; 

But thou, thrice happy bird! 
No sooner has it passed away, 

Than, lo ! thy voice is heard. 

When ill is present, grief is thine ; 

It flies, and thou art free ; 
But ah ! can aught achieve for man 

"What nature does for thee ? 
Man grieves amid the bursting storm; 

When smiles the calm he grieves ; 
Nor cease his woes, nor sinks his plaint. 

Till dust his dust receives. 



CHAPTER II. 
THE SEQUEL. 

As the latter month of spring came on the fisherman 
again betook himself to his wears, and nearly a fortnight 
passed in which he saw none of the inmates of the farm- 
house. Nothing is so efficient as absence, whether self- 
imposed or the result of circumstances, in convincing a 
lover that he is truly such, and in teaching him how to es- 
timate the strength of his attachment. Thomson had sat 
night after night beside Lillias Stewart, delighted with the 
delicacy of her taste and the originality and beauty of her 
ideas ; delighted, too, to watch the still partially-developed 
faculties of.her mind shooting forth and expanding into bud 
and blossom under the fostering influence of his own more 
matured powers. But the pleasure which arises from the in- 
terchange of ideas and the contemplation of mental beauty, 
or the interest which every thinking mind must feel in mark- 
ing the aspirations of a superior intellect towards its proper 
destiny, is not love ; and it was only now that Thomson 
ascertained the true scope and nature of his feelings. 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 145 

" She is already nxy friend," thought he. " If my schemes 
prosper, I shall be in a few years what her father is now ; 
and may then ask her whether she will not be more. Till 
then, however, she shall be my friend, and my friend only. 
I find I love her too well to make her the wife of either a 
poor unsettled speculator, or still poorer laborer." 

He renewed his visits to the farm-house, and saw, with a 
discernment quickened by his feelings, that his mistiness 
had made a discovery with regard to her own affections 
somewhat similar to his, and at a somewhat earlier period. 
She herself could have perhaps fixed the date of it by re- 
ferring to that of their acquaintance. He imparted to her 
his scheme, and the uncertainties which attended it, with 
his determination, were he unsuccessful in his designs, to 
do battle with the evils of penury and. dependence with- 
out a companion ; and, though she felt that she could deem 
it a happiness to make common cause with him even in 
such a contest, she knew how to appreciate his motives, 
and loved him all the more for them. Never, perhaps, in 
the whole history of the passion, were there two lovers 
happier in their hopes and each other. But there was a 
cloud gathering over them. 

Thomson had never been an especial favorite with the 
step-mother of Lillias. She had formed plans of her own 
for the settlement of her daughter with which the atten- 
tions of the salmon-fisher threatened materially to inter- 
fere ; and there was a total want of sympathy between 
them besides. Even William, though he still retained a 
sort of rough regard for him, had begun to look askance 
on his intimacy with Lillias. His avowed love, too, for the 
modern, gave no little offence. The farm of Meikle Farness 
was obsolete enough in its usages and mode of tillage to 
have formed no uninteresting study to the antiquary. To- 
13 - 



146 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

wards autumn, when the fields vary most in color, it re- 
sembled a rudely-executed chart of some lai-ge island, — 
so irregular were the patches which composed it, and so 
broken on every side by a surrounding sea of moor that 
here and there went winding into the interior in long river- 
like strips, or expanded within into friths and lakes. In one 
corner there stood a heap of stones, in another a thicket 
of furze ; here a piece of bog, there a broken bank of 
clay. The implements with which the old man labored in 
his fields Avere as primitive in their appearance as the fields 
themselves : there was the one-stilted plough, the wooden- 
toothed harrow, and the basket-woven cart with its rollers 
of wood. With these, too, there was the usual mispropor- 
tion on the farm, to its extent, of lean, inefficient cattle, — 
four half-starved animals performing with incredible effort 
the work of one. Thomson would fain have induced the 
old man, who was evidently sinking in the world, to have 
recourse to a better system, but he gained wondi-ous little 
by his advice. And there was another cause which ope- 
rated still more decidedly against him. A wealthy young 
farmer in the neighborhood had been for the last few 
months not a little diligent in his attentions to Lillias. 
He had lent the old man, at the preceding term, a consid- 
erable sum of money ; and had ingratiated himself with 
the step-mother by chiming in on all occasions with her 
humor, and by a present or two besides. Under the aus- 
pices of both parents, therefore, he had paid his addresses 
to Lillias ; and, on meeting with a repulse, had stirred them 
both up against Thomson. 

The fisherman was engaged one evening in fishing his 
nets. The ebb was that of a stream tide, and the bottom 
of almost the entire bay lay exposed to the light of the 
setting sun, save that a river-like strip of water wound 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 14T 

through the midst. He had brought his gun with him, in 
the hope of finding a seal or otter asleep on the outer 
banks ; but there were none this evening ; and, laying 
down his piece against one of the poles of the wear, he 
was employed in capturing a fine salmon, that went dart- 
ing like a bird from side to side of the inner enclosure, 
when he heard some one hailing him by name from out- 
side the nets. He looked up, and Saw three men — one of 
whom he recognized as the young farmer who was paying 
his addresses to Lillias — approaching from the opposite 
side of the bay. They were apparently much in liquor, and 
came staggering towards him in a zigzag track along the 
sands. A suspicion crossed his mind that he might find 
them other than friendly ; and, coming out of the enclosure, 
where, from the narrowness of the space and the depth 
of the water, he would have lain much at their mercy, 
he employed himself in picking ofi'the patches of sea-weed 
that adhered to the nets, when they came up to him, and 
assailed him with a torrent of threats and reproaches. He 
pursued his occupation with the utmost coolness, turning 
round, from time to time, to repay their abuse by some 
cutting repartee. His assailants discovered they were to 
gain little in this sort of contest ; and Thomson found, in 
turn, that they were much less disguised in liquor than 
he at first supposed, or than they seemed desirous to make 
it appear. In reply to one of his more cutting sarcasms, 
the tallest of the three, a ruffian-looking fellow, leaped 
forward and struck him on the face ; and in a moment 
he had returned the blow with such hearty good-will 
that the fellow was dashed against one of the poles. The 
other two rushed in to close with him. He seized his gun, 
and, springing out from beside the nets to the open bank, 
dealt the farmer, with the butt-end, a tremendous blow on 



148 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

the face, which prostrated him in an instant ; and then, 
cocking the piece and presenting it, he commanded the 
other two, on peril of their lives, to stand aloof Odds of 
weapons, when there is courage to avail one's self of them, 
forms a thorough counterbalance to odds of number. Af- 
ter an engagement of a brief half-minute, Thomson's as- 
sailants left him in quiet possession of the field ; and he 
found, on his way home', that he could trace their route by 
the blood of the young farmer. There went abroad an ex- 
aggerated and very erroneous edition of the story, highly 
unfavorable to the salmon-fisher ; and he received an inti- 
mation shortly after that his visits at the farm-house were 
no longer expected. But the intimation came not from 
Lillias. 

The second year of his speculation had well-nigh come 
to a close, and, in calculating on the quantum of his ship- 
ments and the state of the markets, he could deem it a 
more successful one than even the first. But his agent 
seemed to be assuming a new and worse character. He 
rather substituted promises and apologies for his usual re- 
mittances, or neglected writing altogether; and, as the fish- 
, erman was employed one day in dismantling his wears for 
the season, his worst fears were realized by the astounding 
intelligence that the embarrassments of the merchant had 
at length terminated in a final suspension of payments! 

" There," said he, with a coolness which partook in its 
nature in no slight degree of that insensibility of pain and 
injury which follows a violent blow, — " there go well-nigh 
all my hard-earned savings of twelve years, and all my 
hopes of happiness with Lillias ! " He gathered up his 
utensils with an automaton-like carefulness, and, throwing 
them over his shoulders, struck across the sands in the di- 
rection of the cottage. " I must see her," he said, " once 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 149 

more, and bid her farewell." His heart swelled to his 
throat at the thought ; but, as if ashamed of his weakness, 
he struck his foot firmly against the sand, and, proudly 
raising himself to his full height, quickened his pace. He 
reached the door, and, looking wistfully, as he raised the 
latch, in the direction of the farm-house, his eye caught 
a female figure coming towards the cottage through the 
bushes of the ravine. " 'Tis poor Lillias ! " he exclaimed. 
" Can she already have heard that I am unfortunate, and 
that we must part ? " He went up to her, and, as he 
pressed her hand between both his, she burst into tears. 

It was a sad meeting. Meetings must ever be such when 
the parties that compose them bring each a separate grief, 
which becomes common when imparted. 

"I cannot tell you," said Lillias to her lover, " how un- 
happy I am. My step-mother has not miich love to bestow 
on any one ; and so, though it be in her power to deprive 
me of the quiet I value so much, I care comj^aratively little 
for her resentment. Why should I ? She is interested in 
no one but herself As for Simpson, I can despise without 
hating him. Wasps sting just because it is their nature; 
and some people seem born, in the same way, to be mean- 
spirited and despicable. But my poor father, who has been 
so kind to me, and who has so much heart about him, 
his displeasure has the bitterness of death to me. And 
then he is so wildly and unjustly angry with you. Simp- 
son has got him, by some means, into his power, I know 
not how. My step-mother annoys him continually; and 
from the state of irritation in which he is kept, he is saying 
and doing the most violent things imaginable, and making 
me so unhappy by his threats." And she again burst into 
tears. 

Thomson had but little of comfoit to impart to her. In- 
13* 



160 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

deed, he could afterwards wonder at the indifference with 
which lie beheld her tears, and the coolness with which he 
conimnnicated to her the story of his disaster. But he had 
not yet recovered his natural tone of feeling. Who has 
not observed that, while in men of an inferior and weaker 
cast, any sudden and overwhelming misfortune unsettles 
tlieir whole minds, and all is storm and uproar, in minds 
of a superior order, when subjected to the same ordeal, 
there takes place a kind of freezing, hardening process, 
under which they maintain at least apparent coolness and 
self-possession? Grief. acts as a powerful solvent to the 
one class ; to the other it is as the waters of a petrifying 
spring. 

"Alas, my Lillias!" said the fisherman, "we have not 
been born for happiness and each other. We must part, 
each of us to struggle with our respective evils. Call up 
all your strength of mind, the much in your character 
that has as yet lain unemployed, and so despicable a thing 
as Simpson will not dare to annoy you. You may yet 
meet with a man worthy of you; some one who will love 
you as well as — as one who can at least appreciate your 
value, and who will deserve you better." As he spoke, and 
his mistress listened in silence and in tears, William Stew- 
art burst in upon then through the bushes ; and, with a 
countenance flushed, and a frame tremulous with passion, 
assailed the fisherman with a torrent of threats and re- 
proaches. He even raised his hand. The prudence of 
Thomson gave way under the provocation. Ere the blow 
had descended, he had locked the farmer in his grasp, and, 
with an exertion of strength which scarcely a giant would 
be capable of in a moment of less excitement, he raised him 
from the earth, and forced him against the grassy side of 
the ravine, where he held him despite of his efibrts. A 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOi.L. 151 

shriek from Lillias recalled him to the command oX himself. 
" William Stewart," he said, quitting his hold and stepping 
back, " you are an old man, and the father of Lillias." The 
farmer rose slowly and collectedly, with a flushed cheek 
but a quiet eye, as if all his anger had evaporated in the 
struggle, and, turning to his daughter, — 

" Come, Lillias, my lassie," he said, laying hold of her 
arm, " I have been too hasty; I have been in the wrong." 
And so they parted. 

Winter came on, and Thomson was again left to the 
solitude of his cottage, with only his books and his own 
thoughts to employ him. He found little amusement or 
comfort in either. He could think only of Lillias, that she 
loved and yet was lost to him. 

"Generous and affectionate and confiding," he has said," 
when thinking of her, "I know she would willingly share 
with me in my poverty ; but ill would I repay her kind- 
ness in demanding of her such a sacrifice. Besides, how 
could I endure to see her subjected to the privations of a 
destiny so humble as mine ? The same heaven that seems 
to have ordained me to labor, and to be unsuccessful, has 
given me a mind not to be broken by either toil or disap- 
pointment ; but keenly and bitterly would I feel the evils 
of both were she to be eq.ually exposed. I must strive to 
forget her, or think of her only as my friend." And, in- 
dulging in such thoughts as these, and repeating and re- 
repeating similar resolutions, — only however to find them 
unavailing, — winter, with its long, dreary nights, and its 
days of languor and inactivity, passed heavily away. But 
it passed. 

He was sitting beside his fire, one evening late in Feb- 
ruary, when a gentle knock was heard at the door. He 



152 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

started up, and, drawing back the bar, William Stewart 
entered the apartment. 

" Allan," said the old man, " I have come to have some 
conversation with you, and Avould have come sooner, but 
pride and shame kept me back. I fear I have been much 
to blame." 

Thomson motioned him to a seat, and sat down beside 
him. 

" Farmer," he said, " since we cannot recall the past, we 
had perhaps better forget it." 

The old man bent forward his head till it rested almost 
on his knee, and for a few moments remained silent. 

" I fear, Allan, I have been much to blame," he at length 
reiterated. "Ye maun come an' see Lillias. She is ill, 
very ill, an' I fear no very like to get better. Thomson 
was stunned by the intelligence, and answered he scarcely 
knew what. " She has never been richt hersel '," continued 
the old man, "sin' the unlucky day when you an' I met in 
the burn here ; but for the last month she has been little 
out o' her bed. Since mornin' there has been a great 
change on her, an' she wishes to see you. I fear we 
havena meikle time to spare, an' had better gang." Thom- 
son followed him in silence. 

They reached the farm-house of Meikle Farness, and en- 
tered the chamber where the maiden lay. A bright fire of 
brushwood threw a flickering gloom on the floor and raft- 
ers ; and their shadows, as they advanced, seemed dancing 
on the walls. Close beside the bed there was a small ta- 
ble, bearing a lighted candle, and with a Bible lying open 
upon it at that chapter of Corinthians in which the apos- 
tle assures us that the dead shall rise, and the mortal put 
on immortality. Lillias half sat, half reclined, in the upper 
part of the bed. Her thin and wasted features had already 



THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. 153 

the stiff rigidity of death ; her cheeks and lips were color- 
less; and though the blaze seemed to dance and flicker on 
her half-closed eyes, they served no longer to intimate to 
the departing spirit the existence of external things. 

"Ah, ray Lillias ! " exclaimed Thomson, as he bent over 
her, his heart swelling with an intense agony. " Alas ! has 
it come to this ! " 

His well-known voice served to recall her as from the 
precincts of another world. A faint melancholy smile 
passed over her features, and she held out her hand. 

" I was afraid," she said, in a voice sweet and gentle as 
ever, though scarcely audible, through extreme weakness, 
— "I was afraid that I was never to see you more. Draw 
nearer ; there is a darkness coming over me, and I hear 
but imperfectly. I may now say with a propriety which 
no one will challenge, what I durst not have said before. 
Need I tell you that you were the dearest of all my friends, 
the only man I have ever loved, the man whose lot, 
however low and unprosperous, I would have deemed it a 
happiness to be invited to share ? I do not, however, I 
cannot reproach you. I depart, and forever ; but oh ! let 
not a single thought of me render you unhappy. My few 
years of life have not been without their pleasures, and I go 
to a better and brighter world. I am weak, and cannot say 
more ; but let me hear you speak. Read to me the eighth 
chapter of Romans." 

Thomson, with a voice tremulous and faltering through 
emotion, read the chapter. Ere he had made an end, the 
maiden had again sunk into the state of apparent insensi- 
bility out of which she had been so lately awakened ; though 
occasionally a faint jDressure of his hand, which she still re- 
tained, showed him that she was not unconscious of his 
presence. At length, however, there was a total relaxation 



154 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

of the grasp ; the cold damp of the stiffening palm struck a 
chill to his heart ; there was a fluttering of the pulse, a 
glazing of the eye ; the breast ceased to heave, the heart to 
beat ; the silver cord parted in twain, and the golden bowl 
was broken. Thomson contemplated for a moment the 
body of his mistress, and, striking his hand against his 
forehead, rushed out of the apartment. 

He attended her funeral ; he heard the earth falling 
heavy and hollow on the coffin-lid ; he saw the green sod 
placed over her grave ; he witnessed the irrepressible an- 
guish of her father, and the sad regret of her friends ; and 
all this without shedding a tear. He was turning to de- 
part, when some one thrust a letter into his hand. He 
opened it almost mechanically. It contained a consider- 
able sum of money, and a few lines from his agent, stating 
that, in consequence of a favorable change in his circum- 
stances, he had been enabled to satisfy all his creditors. 
Thomson crumpled up the bills in his hand. He felt as if 
his heart stood still in his breast ; a noise seemed ringing 
in his ears ; a mist-cloud appeared, as if rising out of the 
earth and darkening around him. He was caught, when 
falling, by old William Stewart; and, on awakening to 
consciousness and the memory of the past, found himself 
in his arms. He lived for about ten years after a laborious 
and speculative man, ready to oblige, and successful in all 
his designs; and no one deemed him unhappy. It was 
observed, however, that his dark brown hair was soon min- 
gled with masses of gray, and that his tread became heavy 
and his frame bent. It was remarked, too, that when 
attacked by a lingering epidemic, which passed over well- 
nigh the whole country, he of all the people was the only 
one that sunk under it, 



IV. 

THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 

CHAPTER I. 

" Oh, mony a shriek, that waefu' night, 

Rose frae the stormy main ; 
An' mony a bootless vow was made, 

An' mony a prayer vain ; 
An' mithers wept, an' widows mourned, 

For mony a weary day ; 
An' maidens, ance o' blithest mood, 

Grew sad, an' pined away." 

The northern Sutor of Cromarty is of a bolder char- 
acter than even the southern one, abrupt and stern and 
precipitous as that is. It presents a loftier and more un- 
broken wall of rock ; and, where it bounds on the Moray 
Frith, there is a savage magnificence in its cliffs and caves, 
and in the wild solitude of its beach, which we find no- 
where equalled on the shores of the other. It is more ex- 
posed, too, in the time of tempest. The Avaves often rise, 
during the storms of winter, more than a hundred feet 
against its precipices, festooning them, even at that height, 
with wreaths of kelp and tangle ; and for miles within the 
bay we may hear, at such seasons, the savage uproar that 
maddens amid its cliffs and caverns, coming booming over 
the lashings of the nearer waves like a roar of artillery. 
There is a sublimity of desolation on its shores, the effects 



156 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

of a conflict maintained for ages, and on a scale so gigan- 
tic. The isolated spire-like crags that rise along its base 
are so drilled and bored by the incessant lashings of the 
surf, and are ground down into shajDCS so fantastic, that 
they seem but the wasted skeletons of their former selves ; 
and we find almost every natural fissure in the solid rock 
hollowed into an immense cavern, whose very ceiling, 
though the head turns as we look up to it, owes, evidently, 
its comparative smoothness to the action of the waves. 
One of the most remarkable of these i*ecesses occupies 
what we may term the apex of a lofty promontory. The 
entrance, unlike most of the others, is narrow and rug- 
ged, though of great height ; but it widens within into a 
shadowy chamber, perplexed, like the nave of a cathedral, 
by uncertain cross-lights, that come glimmering into it 
through two lesser openings which perforate the opposite 
sides of the promontory. It is a strange, ghostly-looking 
place. There is a sort of moonlight greenness in the twi- 
light which forms its noon, and the denser shadows which 
rest along its sides ; a blackness, so profound that it mocks 
the eye, hangs over a lofty passage which leads from it, 
like a corridor, still deeper into the bowels of the hill; the 
light falls on a sprinkling of half-buried bones, the remains 
of animals that in the depth of winter have creeped into 
it for shelter and to die ; and when the winds are up, and 
the hoarse roar of the waves comes reverberated from its 
inner recesses, or creeps howling along its roof, it needs 
no over-active fancy to people its avenues with the shapes 
of beings long since departed from every gayer and softer 
scene, but which still rise uncalled to the imagination, 
in those by-corners of nature which seem dedicated, like 
this cavern, to the wild, the desolate, and the solitary. 
There is a little rocky bay a few hundred yards to the 



THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 157 

west, which has been known for ages to all the seafaring 
men of the place as the Cova Green. It is such a place as 
Ave are sometimes made acquainted with in the narrative 
of disastrous shipwrecks. First, there is a broad serai- 
circular strip of beach, with a wilderness of insulated piles 
of rock in front; and so steep and continuous is the wall 
of precipices which rises behind, that, though we may see 
directly over head the grassy slopes of the hill, with here 
and there a few straggling firs, no human foot ever gained 
the nearer edge. The bay of the Cova Green is a prison 
to which the sea presents the only outlet ; and the numer- 
ous caves which open along its sides, like the arches of 
an amphitheatre, seem but its darker cells. It is in truth 
a wild, impressive place, full of beauty and terror, and 
with none of the squalidness of the mere dungeon about 
it. There is a puny littleness in our brick and lime recep- 
tacles of misery and languor, which speaks as audibly of 
the feebleness of man as of his crimes or his inhumanity ; 
but here all is great and magnificent, and there is much, 
too, that is pleasing. Many of the higher cliffs, which 
rise beyond the influence of the spray, are tapestried with 
ivy. We may see the heron watching on the ledges be- 
side her bundle of withered twigs, or the blue hawk dart- 
ing from her cell. There is life on every side of us ; life 
in even the wild tumbling of the waves, and in the stream 
of pure water which, rushing from the higher edge of the 
precipice in a long Avhite cord, gradually untwists itself 
by the way, and spatters ceaselessly among the stones 
over the entrance of one of the caves. Nor does the scene 
want its old story to strengthen its hold on the imagina- 
tion. 

I am wretchedly uncertain in ray dates ; but it must 

have been some time late in the reign of Queen Anne, 
14 



158 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

that a fishing yawl, after vainly laboring for hours to enter 
the bay of Cromarty, during a strong gale from the west, 
was forced at nightfall to relinquish the attempt, and take 
shelter in the Cova Green. The crew consisted of but 
two persons, — an old fisherman and his son. Both had 
been thoroughly drenched by the spray, and chilled by the 
piercing wind, which, accompanied by thick snow show- 
ers, had blown all day through the opening from off the 
snowy top of Ben Wyvis ; and it was with no ordinary 
satisfaction that, as they opened the little bay on their 
last tack, they saw the red gleam of a fire flickering from 
one of the caves, and a boat drawn ujDon the beach. 

" It must be some of the Tarbet fishermen," said the old 
man, "wind-bound, like ourselves, but wiser than us in 
having made provision for it. I shall feel willing enough 
to share their fire with them for the night." 

" But see," remarked the younger, " that there be no 
unwillingness on the other side. I am much mistaken if 
that be not the boat of my cousins the Macinlas, who 
would so fain have broken my head last Rhorichie Tryst. 
But, hap what may, father, the night is getting worse, and 
we have no choice of quarters. Hard up your helm, or 
we shall barely clear the skerries. There, now ; every 
nail an anchor." He leaped ashore, carrying with him 
the small hawser attached to the stern, which he wound 
securely round a jutting crag, and then stood for a few 
seconds, until the old man, who moved but heavily along 
the thwarts, had come up to him. All was comparatively 
calm under the lee of the precipices ; but the wind was 
roaring fearfully in the woods above, and whistling amid 
the furze and ivy of the higher cliff; and the two boat- 
men, as they entered the cave, could see the flakes of 



THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 159 

a thick snow shower, that had just begun to descend, 
circling round and round in the eddy. 

The place was occupied by three men, who were sitting 
beside the fire on blocks of stone which had been rolled 
from the beach. Two of them were young, and compara- 
tively commonplace-looking persons ; the third was a gray- 
headed old man, apparently of great muscular strength, 
though long past his prime, and of a peculiarly sinister cast 
of countenance. A keg of spirits, which was placed end 
up in front of them, served as a table ; there were little 
drinking measures of tin on it ; and the mask-like, stolid 
expressions of the two younger men showed that they had 
been indulging freely. The elder was apparently sober. 
They all started to their feet on the entrance of the fisher- 
man, and one of the younger, laying hold of the little cask, 
pitched it hurriedy into a dark corner of the cave. 

" His peace be here ! " was the simple greeting of the 
elder fisherman as he came forward. " Eachen Macinla," 
he continued, addressing the old man, " we have not met 
for years before, — not, I believe, since the death o' my 
puir sister, when we parted such ill friends ; but we are 
short-lived creatures oursels, Eachen ; surely our anger 
should be short-lived too ; and I have come to crave from 
you a seat by your fire." 

" William Beth," replied Eachen, " it was no wish of 
mine we should ever meet ; but to a seat by the fire you 
are welcome." 

Old Macinla and his sons resumed their seats ; the two 
fishermen took their places fronting them ; and for some 
time neither party exchanged a word. 

A fire, composed mostly of fragments of wreck and drift- 
wood, threw up its broad, cheerful flame towards the roof; 
but so spacious was the cavern, that, except where here 



160 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

and there a whiter mass of stalactites or bolder projection 
of cliff stood out from the darkness, the light seemed lost 
in it. A dense body of smoke, which stretched its blue 
level surface from side to side, and concealed the roof, went 
rolling outwards like an inverted river, 

" This is but a gousty lodging-place," remarked the old 
fisherman, as he looked round him ; " but I have seen a 
worse. I wish the folk at hame kent we were half sae 
snug; and then the fire, too, — I have always felt some- 
thing companionable in a fire, something consolable, as it 
■were ; it appears, somehow, as if it were a creature like 
ourselves, and had life in it." The remark seemed directed 
to no one in particular, and there was no reply. In a 
second attempt at conversation, the fisherman addressed 
himself to the old man. 

" It has vexed me," he said, " that our young folk should- 
na, for my sister's sake, be on more friendly terms, Eachen. 
They hae been quarrelling, an' I wish to see the quarrel 
made up." The old man, without deigning a reply, knit 
his gray, shaggy brows, and looked doggedly at the fire. 

"Nay, now," continued the fisherman, " we ai-e getting 
auld men, Eachen, an' wauld better bury our hard thoughts 
o' ane anither afore we come to be buried ourselves. What 
if we were sent to the Cova Green the night, just that we 
might part friends ! " 

Eachen fixed his keen, scrutinizing glance on the speaker, 
— it was but for a moment, — there was a tremulous 
motion of the under lip as he withdrew it, and a setting of 
the teeth, — the expression of mingled hatred and anger; 
but the tone of his rei)ly savored more of sullen indiffer- 
ence than of passion. 

" William Beth," he said, " ye hae tricked my boys out 
o' the bit property that suld hae come to them by their 



THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 161 

mother ; it's no lang since they barely escaped being mur- 
dered by your son. What more want you ? But ye 
perhaps think it better that the time should be passed in 
making hollow lip. professions of good-will, than that it suld 
be employed in clearing off an old score." 

" Ay," hickuped out the elder of the two sons ; " the 
houses might come my way then ; an', besides, gin Helen 
Henry were to lose her a'e jo, the ither might hae a better 
chance. Rise, brither ! rise, man ! an' fight for me an' 
your sweet-heart." The younger Tad, who seemed verging 
towards the last stage of intoxication, struck his clenched 
fist against his palm, and attempted to rise. 

" Look ye, uncle," exclaimed the younger fisherman, — 
a powerful-looking and very handsome stripling, — as he 
sprang to his feet ; " your threat might be spared. Our lit- 
tle property was my grandfather's, and naturally descended 
to his only son ; and as for the aflTair at Rhorichie, I dare 
either of my cousins to say the quarrel was of my seeking. 
I have no wish to raise my hand against the sons or the 
husband of my aunt; but if forced to it, you will find that 
neither my father nor myself are wholly at your mercy." 

" Whisht, Earnest," said the old fisherman, laying his 
hand on the hand of the young man ; " sit down; your uncle 
maun hae ither thoughts. It is now fifteen years, Eachen," 
he continued, "since I was called to my sister's deathbed. 
Yon youi'sel' canna forget what passed there. There had 
been grief an' cauld an' hunger beside that bed. I'll no 
say you were willingly unkind, — few folk are that, but 
when they hae some purpose to serve by it, an' you could 
have none, — but you laid no restraint on a harsh temper, 
and none on a craving habit that forgets everything but 
itsel' ; and so my puir sister perished in the middle o' her 
days, a wasted, heart-broken thing. It's no that I wish to 
14* 



162 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

hurt you. I mind how we passed our youth thegither 
among the wild buccaneers. It was a bad school, Eachen ; 
an' I owre often feel I havena unlearned a' my ain lessons, 
to wonder that you shouldna hae unlearned a' yours. But 
we're getting old men Eachen, an' we have now, what 
we hadna in our young days, the advantage o' the light. 
Dinna let us die fools in the sight o' Him who is so willing 
tQ give us wisdom ; dinna let us die enemies. We have been 
early friends, though maybe no for good, we have fought 
afore now at the same gun ; we have been united by the 
luve o' her that's now in the dust ; an' there are our boys, 
— the nearest o' kin to ane anither that death has spared. 
But what I feel as strongly as a' the rest, Eachen, we hae 
done meikle ill thegithei-. I can hardly think o' a past sin 
without thinking o' you, an' thinking, too, that if a crea- 
ture like me may hope he has found pardon, you shouldna 
despair. Eachen, we maun be friends." 

The features of the stern old man relaxed. "You are 
perhaps right, "William," he at length replied ; " but ye 
were aye a luckier man than me, — luckier for this world, 
I'm sure, an' maybe for the next. I had aye to seek, an' 
aften without finding, the good that came in your gate o' 
itsel'. Now that age is coming upon us, ye get a snug 
rental frae the little houses, an' I hae naething ; an' ye 
hae character an' credit ; but wha would trust me, or cares 
for me? A^e hae been made an elder o' the kirk, too, I 
hear, an' I am still a reprobate ; but we were a' born to be 
just what we are, an' sae maun submit. An' your son, too, 
shares in your luck. He has heart an' hand, an' my whelps 
hae neither; an' the girl Henry, that scouts that sot there, 
likes him ; but what wonder o' that ? But you are right, 
William ; we maun be friends. Pledge me." The little 
cask was produced ; and, filling the measures, he nodded 



THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 163 

to Earnest and his father. They pledged him, when, as if 
seized by a sudden frenzy, he filled his measure thrice in 
hasty succession, draining it each time to the bottom, and 
then flung it down with a short, hoarse laugh. His sons, 
who would fain have joined with him, he repulsed with a 
firmness of manner which he had not before exhibited. 
"No, whelps," he said ; "get sober as fast as ye can." 

" We had better," whispered Earnest to his father, " not 
sleep in the cave to-night." 

"Let me hear now o' your quarrel. Earnest," said Ea- 
ch an ; "your father was a more prudent man than you; 
and, however much he wronged me, did it without quar- 
relling." 

" The quarrel was none of my seeking," replied Earnest. 
" I was insulted by your sons, and would have borne it for 
the sake of what they seemed to forget ; but there was 
another whom they also insulted, and that I could not 
bear." 

" The girl Henry. And what then ? " 

" Why, my cousins may tell the rest. They were mean 
enough to take odds against me, and I just beat the two 
spiritless fellows that did so." 

But why record the quarrels of this unfortunate evening? 
An hour or two passed away in disagreeable bickerings, 
during which the patience of even the old fisherman was 
worn out, and that of Earnest had failed him altogether. 
They both quitted the cave, boisterous as the night was, — 
and it was now stormier than ever, — and, heaving off their 
boat till she rode at the full length of her swing from the 
shore, sheltered themselves under the sail. The Macinlas 
returned next evening to Tarbet ; but, though the wind 
moderated during the day, the yawl of William Beth did 
not enter the Bay of Cromarty. Weeks passed away, 



164 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

during which the clergyman of the place corresponded 
regarding the missing fisherman with all the lower parts 
of the Frith, but they had disappeared, as it seemed, for 
ever. 



CHAPTER II. 
HELEN'S VISION. 

Wheeb the northern Sutor sinks into the low sandy 
tract that nearly fronts the town of Cromarty, there is a 
narrow grassy terrace raised but a few yards over the level 
of the beach. It is sheltered behind by a steep, undulating 
bank ; for, though the rock here and there juts out, it is too 
rich in vegetation to be termed a precipice. It is a sweet 
little spot, with its grassy slopes, that recline towards the 
sun, partially covered with thickets of wild rose and honey- 
suckle, and studded in their season with violets and daisies 
and the delicate rock geranium. Towards its eastern ex- 
tremity, with the bank rising immediately behind, and an 
open space in front, which seemed to have been cultivated 
at one time as a garden, there stood a picturesque little 
cottage. It was that of the widow of William Beth. Five 
years had now elapsed since the disappearance of her son 
and husband, and the cottage bore the marks of neglect 
and decay. The door and window, bleached white by the 
sea-winds, shook loosely to every breeze ; clusters of chick- 
weed luxuriated in the hollows of the thatch, or mantled 
over the eaves ; and a honeysuckle, that had twisted itself 
round the chimney, lay withering in a tangled mass at the 
foot of the wall. 

But the progress of decay was more marked in the widow 



THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 165 

herself than in her dwelling. She had had to contend with 
grief and jDenui-y ; a grief not the less undermining in its 
effects from the circumstance of its being sometimes sus- 
pended by hope ; a penury so extreme that every succeed- 
ing day seemed as if won by some i:)rovidential interference 
from absolute want. And she was now, to all appearance, 
fast sinking in the struggle. The autumn was well-nigh 
over. She had been weak and ailing for months before, 
and had now become so feeble as to be confined for days 
together to her bed. But, happily, the poor solitary wo- 
man had at least one attached friend in the daughter of a 
farmer of the parish, a young and beautiful girl, who, 
though naturally of no melancholy temperament, seemed 
to derive almost all she enjoyed of pleasure from the soci- 
ety of the widow. Helen Henry was in her twenty-first 
year, but she seemed older in spirit than in years. She 
was thin and pale, though exquisitely formed. There was 
a drooping heaviness in her fine eyes, and a cast of pensive 
thought on her forehead, that spoke of a longer experience 
of grief than so brief a portion of life might be supposed 
to have furnished. She had once lovers, but they had 
gradually dropped away in the despair of moving her, and 
awed by a deep and settled pensiveness, which, in the 
gayest season of youth, her character had suddenly but 
permanently assumed. Besides, they all knew her affec- 
tions were already engaged, and had come to learn, though 
late and unwillingly, that there are cases in which no rival 
can be more formidable than a dead one. 

Autumn, I have said, was near its close. The weather 
had given indications of an early and severe winter; and 
the widow, whose worn-out and delicate frame was affected 
by evei'y change of atmosphere, had for a few days been 
more than usually indisposed. It was now long past noon, 



166 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

and she had but just risen. The apartment, however, bore 
witness that her young friend had paid her the accustomed 
morning visit ; the fire was blazing on a clean, comfortable- 
looking hearth, and every little piece of furniture it con- 
tained was ai-ranged with the most scrupulous care. Her 
devotions were hardly over when the well-known tap was 
again heard at the door. 

" Come in, my lassie," said the widow ; and then lower- 
ing her voice, as the light foot of her friend was heard on 
the threshold, " God," she said, " has been ever kind to 
me ; far, very far, aboon my best deservings ; and oh, may 
he bless and reward her who has done so meikle, meikle 
for me ! " The young girl entered and took her seat be- 
side her. 

" You told me, mother," she said, " that to-morrow is 
Earnest's birthday. I have been thinking of it all last 
night, and feel as if my heart were turning into stone. 
But when I am alone it is always so. There is a cold, 
death-like weight at my breast, that makes me unhappy ; 
though, when I come to you, and we speak together, the 
feeling passes away, and I become cheerful." 

" Ah, my bairn," replied the old woman, " I fear I'm no 
your friend, meikle as I love you. "We speak owre, owre 
often o' the lost, for our foolish hearts find mair pleasure 
in that than in anything else ; but ill does it fit us for being 
alone. Weel do I ken your feeling, — a stone deadness o' 
the heart, — a feeling there are no words to express, but 
that seems as it were insensibility itself turning into pain; 
and I ken, too, my lassie, that it is nursed by the very 
means ye tak to flee from it. Ye maun learn to think mair 
o' the living, and less o' the dead. Little, little does it 
matter how a puir worn-out creature like me passes the 
few broken days o' life that remains to her; but ye are 



THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. . 167 

young, my Helen, an' the world is a' before you ; and ye 
maun just tiy an' live for it." 

" To-morrow," rejoined Helen, " is Earnest's birthday. 
Is it no strange that, when our minds make pictures o' the 
dead, it is always as they looked best an' kindest an' maist 
life-like; I have been seeing Earnest all night long, as 
when I saw him on his last birthday ; an' oh, the sharp- 
ness o' the pang, when, every now an' then, the back o' the 
picture is turned to me, an' I see him as he is, — dust! " 

The widow grasped her young friend by the hand. 
"Helen," she said, "you will get better when I am taken 
from you ; but so long as we continue to meet, our thoughts 
will aye be running the one way. I had a strange dream 
last night, an' must tell it to you. You see yon rock to 
the east, in the middle o' the little bay, that now rises 
through the back draught o' the sea, like the hull o' a ship, 
an' is now buried in a mountain o' foam ? I dreamed I 
was sitting on that rock, in what seemed a bonny summer's 
morning. The sun was glancin' on the water, an' I could 
see the white sand far down at the bottom, wi' the reflec- 
tion o' the little wavies running o'er it in long curls o' 
goud. But there was no way o' leaving the rock, for the 
deep waters were round an' round me; an' I saw the tide 
covering one wee bittie after another, till at last the whole 
was covered. An' yet I had but little fear ; for I remem- 
bered that baith Earnest an' William were in the sea afore 
me ; an' I had the feeling that I could hae rest now^here 
but wi' them. The water at last closed o'er me, an' I 
sank frae aff the rock to the sand at the bottom. But 
death seemed to have no power given him to hurt me; 
an' I walked as light as ever I hae done on a gowany brae, 
through the green depths o' the sea. I saw the silvery 
glitter o' the trout an' the salmon shining to the sun, far, 



168 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

far aboon me, like white pigeons in the lift ; an' around 
me there were crimson star-fish an' sea-flowers an' long 
trailing plants, that waved in the tide like streamers ; an' 
at length I came to a steep rock, wi' a little cave like a 
tomb in it. ' Here,' I said, ' is the end o' my journey. 
"William is here, an' Earnest.' An', as I looked into the 
cave, I saw there were bones in it, an' I prepared to take 
my place beside them. But, as I stooped to enter, some 
one called me, an', on looking up, there was William. 
' Lillias,' he said, 'it is not night yet, nor is that your bed ; 
you are to sleep, not with me, but with Earnest. Haste 
you home, for he is waiting you.' •' Oh, take me to him ! ' 
I said ; an' then all at once I found myself on the shore, 
dizzied an' blinded wi' the bright sunshine ; for at the cave 
there was a darkness like that o' a simmer's gloamin'; an' 
when I looked up for William, it was Eai-nest that stood 
before me, life-like an' handsome as ever; an' you were 
beside him." 

The day had been gloomy and lowering, and, though 
there was little wind, a tremendous sea, that, as the evening 
advanced, rose higher and higher against the neighboring 
precipice, had been rolling ashore since morning. The 
wind now began to blow in long hollow gusts among the 
cliffs, and the rain to patter against the widow's casement. 

" It will be a storm from the sea," she said ; " the scarts 
an' gulls hae been flying landward sin' daybreak, an' I hae 
never seen the ground-swell come home heavier against 
the rocks. Wae's me for tlie puir sailors ! " 

" In the lang stormy nights," said Helen, " I canna sleep 
for thinking o' them, though I have no one to bind me to 
them now. Only look how the sea rages among the rocks, 
as if it were a thing o' life an' passion ! That last wave 
rose to the crane's nest. An' look, yonder is a boat round-" 



THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 169 

ing the rock wi' only a'e man in it. It dances on the surf 
as if it were a cork ; an' the wee bittie o' sail, sae black an' 
weet, seems scarcely bigger than a napkin. Is it no bear- 
ing in for the boat-haven below ? " 

" My poor old eyes," replied the widow, " are growing 
dim, an' surely no wonder ; but yet I think I should ken 
that boatman. Is it no Eachen Macinla o' Tarbet ? " 

"Hard-hearted, cruel old man!" exclaimed the maiden; 
" what can be takin' him here ? Look how his skiff shoots 
in like an arrow on the long roll o' the surf! an' now she is 
high on the beach. How unfeeling it was o' him to rob 
you o' your little property in the very first o' your grief! 
But see, he is so worn out that he can hardly walk over 
the rough stones. Ah me ! he is down ; wretched old man, 
I must run to his assistance. But no ; he has risen again. 
See, he is coming straight to the house ; an' now he is at the 
door." In a moment after, Eachen entered the cottage. 

" I am perishing, Lillias," he said, " with cold an' hunger, 
an' can gang nae further ; sui*ely ye'll no shut your door on 
me in a night like this." 

The poor widow had been taught in a far different school. 
She relinquished to the worn-out fisherman her seat by the 
fire, now hurriedly heaped with fresh fuel, and hastened 
to set before him the simple viands which her cottnge 
afforded. 

As the night darkened, the storm increased. The wind 
roared among the rocks like the rattling of a thousand car- 
riages over a paved street ; and there were times when, 
after a sudden pause, the blast struck the cottage as if it 
were a huge missile flung against it, and pressed on its roof 
and walls till the very floor rocked, and the rafters strained 
and shivered like the beams of a stranded vessel. There 
was a ceaseless patter of mingled rain and snow, now 
15 



170 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

lower, now louder ; and the fearful thunderings of the 
waves, as they raged among the pointed crags, were min- 
gled with the hoarse roll of the storm along the beach. 
The old man sat beside the fire, fronting the widow and 
her companion, with his head reclined nearly as low as his 
knee", and his hands covering his face. There was no at- 
tempt at conversation. He seemed to shudder every time 
the blast yelled along the roof; and, as a fiercer gust burst 
open the door, there was a half-muttered ejaculation. 

" Heaven itsel' hae mercy on them ! for what can man 
do in a night like this ? " 

" It is black as pitch," exclaimed Helen, who had risen 
to draw the bolt ; " an' the drift flies sae thick, that it feels 
to the hand like a solid snaw wreath. An' oh, how it 
lightens ! " 

" Heaven itsel' hae mercy on them ! " again ejaculated 
the old man. "My two boys," said he, addressing the 
widow, " are at the far Frith ; an' how can an open boat 
live in a night like this ? " 

There seemed something magical in the communication, 
— something that awakened all the sympathies of the poor 
bereaved woman ; and she felt she could forgive him every 
unkindness. 

" Wae's me ! " she exclaimed ; " it was in such a night as 
this, an' scarcely sae wild, that my Earnest perished." 

The old man groaned and wrung his hands. 

In one of the pauses of the hurricane there was a gun 
heard from the sea, and shortly after a second. " Some 
puir vessel in distress," said the widow ; " but, alas ! where 
can succor come frae in sae terrible a night? There is help 
only in Ane. Wae's me ! would we no better light up a 
blaze on the floor, an', dearest Helen, draAv off the cover 
frae the window ? My puir Earnest has told me that my 



THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 171 

light has aften showed him his bearing frae the deadly bed 
o' Dunskaith. That last gun," — for a thii'd was now heard 
booming over the mingled roar of the sea and the wind, — 
" that last gun cam' frae the very rock-edge. Wae's me, 
wae's me ! maun they perish, an' sae near ! " Helen has- 
tily lighted a bundle of more fir, that threw up its red Sput- 
tering blaze half way to the roof, and, dropping the cover- 
ing, continued to wave it opposite the window. Guns were 
still heard at measured intervals, bnt apparently from a 
safer offing ; and at last, as it sounded faintly against the 
wind, came evidently from the interior of the bay. 

" She has escaped," said the old man. " It's a feeble 
hand that canna do good when the heai't is willing. But 
what has mine been doin' a' life lang?" He looked at 
the window, and shuddered. 

Towards morning 'the wind fell, and the moon, in her 
last quarter, rose red and glaring out of the Frith, lighting 
the melancholy roll of the waves, that still rose like moun- 
tains, and the broad white belt of surf that skirted the 
shores. The old fisherman left the cottage, and sauntered 
along the beach. It was heaped with huge wreaths of kelp 
and tangle, uprooted by the storm ; and in the hollow of the 
rocky bay lay the scattered fragments of a boat. Eachen 
stooped to pick up a piece of the wn^eck, in the fearful ex- 
pectation of finding some known mark by which to recog- 
nize it, when the light fell full on the swollen face of a 
corpse that seemed staring at him from out a wreath of 
weed. It was that of his eldest son. The body of the 
younger, fearfully gashed and mangled by the rocks, lay a 
few yards further to the east. 

The morning was as .pleasant as the night had been 
boisterous ; and except that the distant hills were covered 
with snow, and that a swell still continued to roll in from 



172 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

the sea, there remained scarce any trace of the recent tem- 
pest. Every hollow of the neighboring hill had its little 
runnel, formed by the rains of the j^revious night, that now 
splashed and glistened to the sun. The bushes round the 
cottage were well-nigh divested of their leaves ; but their 
red berries, hips and haws, and the juicy fruit of the honey- 
suckle, gleamed cheerfully to the light; and a warm steam 
of vapor, like that of a May morning, rose from the roof 
and the little mossy platform in front. But the scene 
seemed to have something more than merely its beauty to 
recommend it to a young man, drawn apparently to the 
spot, with many others, by the fate of the two unfortunate 
fishermen, and who now stood gazing on the rocks and the 
hills and the cottage, as a lover on the features of his mis- 
tress. The bodies had been carried to an old store-house, 
which may still be seen a short mile to the west ; and the 
crowds that, during the eai-ly part of the morning, had been 
perambulating the beach, gazing at the wreck, and discuss- 
ing the various probabilities of the accident, had gradually 
dispersed. But this solitary individual, whom no one 
knew, remained behind. He was a tall and swarthy, 
though very handsome man, of about five-and-twenty, with 
a slight scar on his left cheek. His dress, which was plain 
and neat, was distinguished from that of the common sea- 
man by three narrow stripes of gold-lace on the upper part 
of one of the sleeves. He had twice stepped towards the 
cottage-door, and twice drawn back, as if influenced by 
some unaccountable feeling, — timidity, perhaps, or bash- 
fulness ; and yet the bearing of the man gave little indica- 
tion of either. But at length, as if he had gathered heart, 
he raised the latch and went in. 

The widow, who had had many visitors that morning, 
seemed to be scarcely aware of his entrance. She was 



THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. 173 

sitting on a low seat besid.e the fire, her face covered with 
her hands ; while the tremulous rocking motion of her 
body showed that she was still brooding over the distresses 
of the previous night. Her companion, who had thrown 
herself across the bed, was fast asleep. The stranger seated 
himself beside the fire, which seemed dying amid its ashes ; 
and, turning sedulously from tlie light of the window, laid 
his hand gently on the widow's shoulder. She started, and 
looked up. 

" I have strange news for you," he said. " You have 
long mourned for your husband and your son ; but, though 
the old man has been dead for years, your son Earnest is 
still alive, and is now in the harbor of Cromarty. He is 
lieutenant of the vessel whose guns you must have heard 
during the night." 

The poor woman seemed to have lost all powe^- of reply. 

" I am a friend of Earnest's," continued the stranger, 
" and have come to prepare you for meeting with him. It 
is now five years since his father and he were blown off to 
sea by a strong gale from the land. They drove befox-e it 
for four days, when they were picked up by an armed vessel 
then cruising in the North Sea, and which soon after sailed 
for the coast of Spanish America. The poor old man sank 
under the fatigues he had undergone ; though Earnest, 
better able, from his youth, to endure hardship, was little 
affected by them. He accompanied us on our Spanish 
expedition ; indeed, he had no choice, for we touched at no 
British port after meeting with him ; and, through good 
fortune, and what his companions call merit, he has risen 
to be the second man aboard, and has now brought home 
with him gold enough from the Spaniards to make his old 
mother comfortable. He saw your light yester-evening, 
and steered by it to the roadstead, blessing you all the way. 
15* 



174 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

Tell rae, for he anxiously wished me to inquii-e of you, 
whether Helen Henry is yet unmarried." 

" It is Earnest ! it is Earnest himself! " exclaimed the 
maiden, as she started from the widow's bed. In a moment 
after, she was locked in his arms. But why dwell on a 
scene which I feel myself unfitted to describe ? 

It was ill before evening with old Eachen Macinla. The 
fatigues of the present day, and the grief and horror of the 
previous night, had prostrated his energies, bodily and men- 
tal ; and he now lay tossing, in a waste apartment of the 
storehouse, in the delirium of a fever. The bodies of liis two 
sons occupied the floor below. He muttered unceasingly, 
in his ravings, of "William and Earnest Beth. They were 
standing beside him, he said ; and every time he attempted 
to pray for his poor boys and himself the stern old man laid 
his cold swollen hand on his lips. 

" Why trouble me"V " he exclaimed. " "Why stare with 
your white dead eyes on me ? Away, old man ; the little 
black shells are sticking in your gray hairs ; away to your 
place ! Was it I who raised the wind on the sea ? — was 
it I ? — was it I ? TJh, u ! — no — no ; you were asleep, — 
you were fast asleep, — and could not see me cut the swing ; 
and, besides, it was only a piece of rope. Keep away ; touch 
me not; I am a free man, and will plead for my life. 
Please your honor, I did not murder these two men ; I 
only cut the rope that fastened their boat to the land. Ha ! 
ha! ha! he has ordered them away, and they have both 
left me unskaithed." At this moment Earnest Beth entered 
the apartment, and approached the bed. The miserable 
old man raised himself on his elbow, and, regarding him 
with a horrid stare, shrieked out, " Here is Earnest Beth, 
come for me a second time ! " and, sinking back on the 
pillow, instantly expired. 



V. 

THE LYKEWAKE. 

CHAPTER I. 

Why start at Death ? Where is he ? 
Death arrived, is past; not come or gone, he's never here. 

Young. 

I KNOW no place where one may be brought acquainted 
with the more credulous beliefs of our forefathers at a 
less expense of inquiry and exertion than in a country 
lykewake. The house of mourning is naturally a place 
of sombre thoughts and ghostly associations. There is 
something, too, in the very presence and appearance of 
death that leads one to think of the place and state of the 
dead. Cowper has finely said that the man and the beast 
who stand together side by side on the same hill-top, are, 
notwithstanding their proximity, the denizens of very dif- 
ferent worlds. And I have felt the remark to apply still 
more strongly when sitting beside the dead. The world 
of intellect and feeling in which we oui'selves are, and of 
which the lower propensities of our nature form a province, 
may be regarded as including, in jiart at least, that world 
of passion and instinct in which the brute lives ; and we 
have but to analyze and abstract a little, to form for our- 
selves ideas of this latter world from even our own experi- 



176 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

ence. But by what process of thought can we bring ex- 
perience to bear on the world of the dead ? It lies entirely 
beyond us, a te7'ra incognita of cloud and darkness ; and 
yet the thing at our side — the thing over which we can 
stretch our hand, the thing dead to us but living to it 
— has entered upon it ; and, however uninformed or igno- 
rant before, knows more of its dark, and to us inscrutable 
mysteries, than all our philosophers and all our divines. Is 
it wonder that we would fain put it to the question ; that 
we would fain catechise it, if we could, regarding its newly- 
acquired experience; that we should fill up the gaps in 
the diixlogue, which its silence leaves to us, by imparting 
to one another the little we know regarding its state and 
its place ; or that we should send our thoughts roaming in 
long excursions, to glean from the experience of the past 
all that it tells us of the occasional visits of the dead, and 
all that in their less taciturn and more social moments 
they have communicated to the living ? And hence, from 
feelings so natural and a train of associations so obvi- 
ous, the character of a country lykewake, and the cast 
of its stories. I say a country lykewake ; for in at least 
all our larger towns, where a cold and barren scepticism 
has chilled the feelings and imaginations of the people, 
without, I fear, much improving their judgments, the con- 
versation on such occasions takes a lower and less inter- 
esting range. 

I once spent a night with a friend from the south — a 
man of an inquiring and highly philosophic cast of mind — 
at a lykewake in the upper part of the parish of Cromarty. 
I had excited his curiosity by an incidental remark or two 
of the kind I have just been dropping ; and, on his express- 
ing a wish that I should introduce him, by way of illustra- 
tion, to some such scene as I had been describing, we had 



THE LYKEWAKE. 177 

set out together to the wake of an elderly female who had 
died that morning. Her cottage, an humble erection of 
stone and lime, was situated beside a thick fir-wood, on the 
edge of the solitary Mullbuoy, one of the dreariest and most 
extensive commons in Scotland. We had to pass in our 
journey over several miles of desolate moor, sprinkled with 
cairns and tumuli — the memorials of some forgotten con- 
flict of the past ; we had to pass, too, through a thick, 
dark wood, with here and there an intervening marsh, 
whitened over with moss and lichens, and which, from this 
circumstance, are known to the people of the country as 
the white bogs. Nor was the more distant landscape of a 
less gloomy character. On the one hand there opened an 
interminable expanse of moor, that went stretching on- 
wards mile beyond mile — bleak, dreary, uninhabited and 
uninhabitable — till it merged into the far horizon. On the 
other there rose a range of blue, solitary hills, towering, as 
they receded, into loftier peaks and bolder acclivities, till 
they terminated on the snow-streaked Ben Weavis. The 
season, too, was in keeping with the scene. It was draw- 
ing towards the close of autumn ; and, as we passed through 
the wood, the falling leaves were eddying round us with 
every wind, or lay in rustling heaps at our feet. 

" I do not wonder," said my companion, " that the su- 
perstitions of so wild a district as this should bear in their 
character some marks of a corresponding wildness. Night 
itself, in a populous and cultivated country, is attended 
with less of the stern and the solemn than mid-day amid 
solitudes like these. Is the custom of watching beside the 
dead of remote antiquity in this part of the country ? " 

"Far beyond the reach of history or tradition," I said. 
"But it has gradually been changing its character, as the 
people have been changing theirs, and is now a very dif- 



178 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

ferent thing from what it was a century ago. It is not yet 
ninety years since lykewakes in the neighboring Highlands 
used to be celebrated with music and dancing ; and even 
liere, on the borders of the low country, they used invaria- 
bly, like the funerals, to be the scenes of wild games and 
amusements never introduced on any other occasion. You 
remember how Sir Walter describes the funeral of Athel- 
stane ? The Saxon ideas of condolence were the most 
natural imaginable. If grief was hungry, they supplied it 
with food ; if thirsty, they gave it drink. Our simple an- 
cestors here seem to have reasoned by a similar process. 
They made their seasons of deepest grief their times of 
greatest merriment ; and the more they regretted the de- 
ceased, the gayer were they at his wake and his funeral. 
A friend of mine, now dead, a very old man, has told me 
that he once danced at a lykewake in the Highlands of 
Sutherland. It was that of an active and a very robust 
man, taken away from his wife and family in the prime of 
life ; and the poor widow, for the greater part of the even- 
ing, sat disconsolate beside the fire, refusing every invita- 
tion to join the dancers. She was at length, however, 
brought out by the father of the deceased. ' Little, little 
did he think,' he said, ' that we should be the last to dance 
at poor Rory's lykewake.' " 

We reached the cottage and went in. The apartment 
in which the dead lay was occupied by two men and three 
women. Every little piece of furniture it contained was 
hung in white, and the floor had recently been swept and 
sanded ; but it was on the bed where the body lay, and on 
the body itself, tliat the greatest care had been lavished. 
The curtains had been taken down, and their places sup- 
plied by linen white as snow ; and on the sheet that served 
as a counterpane the body was laid out in a dress of white, 



THE LYKEWAKE. 179 

fantastically crossed and re-crossed in • every direction by 
scalloped fringes, and fretted into a sjDecies of open work, 
at least intended to represent alternate rows of roses and 
tulips. A plate containing a little salt was placed over the 
breast of the corpse. As we entered one of the women 
rose, and, filling two glasses with spirits, presented them 
to us on a salver. We tasted the liquor, and sat down on 
chairs placed for us beside the fire. The conversation, 
which had been interrupted by our entrance, began to flow 
apace ; and an elderly female, who had lived under the same 
roof with the deceased, began to relate, in answer to the 
queries of one of the others, some of the particulars of her 
last illness and death. 



CHAPTER II. 
THE STORY OF ELSPAT M'CULLOCH. 

" Elspat was aye," she said, " a retired body, wi* a cast 
o' decent pride aboot her ; an', though bare and puirly aff 
sometimes in her auld days, she had never been chargeable 
to onybody. She had come o' decent, 'sponsible people, 
though they were a' low enough the day ; ay, an' they 
were God-fearing people too, wha had gien plenty in their 
time, an' had aye plenty to gie. An' though they had 
been a' langsyne laid in the kirkyard, — a' except hersel', 
puir body, — she wouldna disgrace their gude name, she 
said, by takin' an alms frae ony ane. Her sma means fell 
oot o' her hands afore her last illness. Little had aye 
dune her turn, but the little failed at last ; an' sair thocht 



180 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

did it gie her for a while what was to come o' her. I 
could hear her, in the butt end o' the hoose, a'e momin* 
mair earnest an' langer in her prayers than usual, though 
she never neglected them, puir body ; an' a' the early part 
o' that day she seemed to be no weel. She was aye up 
and down ; an' I could ance or twice hear her gaunting 
at the fireside ; but when I went ben to her, an' asked what 
was the matter wi' her, she said she was just in her ortli- 
nar'. She went oot for a wee ; an' what did I do, but gang 
to her amry, for I jaloused a' wasna right there ; an' oh ! 
it was a sair sicht to see, neebors ; for there was neither a 
bit o' bread nor a grain of meal within its four corners, — 
naething but the sealed up graybeard wi' the whiskey that 
for twenty years an' mair she had been keepin' for her lyke- 
wake ; an', ye ken, it was oot o' the question to think that 
she would meddle wi' it. Weel did I scold her, when she 
cam' in, for being sae close-minded. I asked her what 
harm I had ever done to her, that she wad rather hae died 
than hae trusted her wants to me ? But though she said 
naething, I could see the tears in her e'e ; an' sae I stopped, 
an' we took a late breakfast thegither at my fireside. 

" She tauld me that mornin'- that she weel kent she 
wouldna lang be a trouble to onybody. The day afoi*e 
had been Sabbath; an' every Sabbath morning, for the 
last ten years, her worthy neeboor the elder, whom they 
had buried only four years afore, used to call on her, in the 
passing on his way to the kirk. ' Come awa, Elspat,' he 
would say ; an' she used to be aye decent an' ready, for 
she liked his conversation ; an' they aye gaed thegither to 
the kirk. She had been contracted, when a young lass, to 
a brither o' the elder's, a stout, handsome lad ; but he had 
been ca'ed suddenly awa atween the contract an' the mar- 
riage, an' Elspat, though she had afterwards mony a gude 



THE LYKEWAKE. 181 

offei", had lived single for his sake. Weel, on the very 
mornin' afore, just sax days after the elder's death, an' four 
after his burial, when Elspat was sitting dowie aside the 
fire, thinkiu' o' her gude auld neebor, the cry cam' to the 
door just as it used to do ; but, though the voice was the 
same, the words were a wee different. ' Elspat,' it said, 
'mak' ready, an' come awa.' She rose hastily to the win- 
dow, an' there, sure enough, was the elder, turning the cor- 
ner, in his Sunday's bonnet an' his Sunday's coat. An' weel 
did she ken, she said, the meaning o' his call, an' kindly 
did she tak' it. An' if it was but God's will that she suld 
hae enough to put her decently under the ground, with- 
out going into any debt to any one, she would be weel 
content. She had already the linen for the dead-dress, she 
said ; for she had spun it for the purpose afore her con- 
tract wi' William; an' she had the whiskey, too, for the 
wake ; but she had naething anent the cofiin an' the 
bedral. 

" "Weel, we took our breakfast, an' I did my best to com- 
fort the puir body ; but she looked very down-hearted for 
a' that. About the middle o' the day, in cam' the minis- 
ter's boy wi' a letter. It was directed to his master, he 
said ; but it was a' for Elspat ; an' there was a five-pound 
note in it. It was frae a man who had left the country 
mony, mony a year afore, a good deal in her faither's debt. 
You would hae thought the puir thing wad hae grat her 
een out when she saw the money ; but never was money 
mair thankfully received, orta'en mair directly frae heaven. 
It sent her aboon the warld, she said ; an' coming at the 
time it did, an estate o' a thousand a year wadna be o' mair 
use to her. Next morning she didna rise, for her strength 
had failed her at once, though she felt nae meikle pain ; an' 
she sent me to get the note changed, an' to leave twenty 
16 



182 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

shillings o't wi' the wright for a decent coffin like her mith- 
er's, an' five shillings mair wi' the bedral, an' to tak' in 
necessaries for a sick-bed wi' some o' the lave. Weel, I 
did that ; an' there's still twa pounds o' the note yonder in 
the little cupboard. 

" On the fifth morning after she had been taken sae ill, I 
cam' in till ask after her ; for my neebor here had relieved 
me o' that night's watchin', an' I had gotten to my bed. 
The moment I opened the door I saw that the haill room 
was hung in white, just as ye see it now ; an' I'm sure it 
staid that way a minute or sae ; but when I winked it went 
awa'. I kent there was a change no far ofi*; and when I 
went up to the bed, Elspat didna ken me. She was wirkin' 
wi' her han' at the blankets, as if she were picking off the 
little motes ; an' I could hear the beginning o' the dead- 
rattle in her throat. I sat at her bedside for a while wi' my 
neebor here ; an' when she spoke to us, it was to say that 
the bed had grown hard an' uneasy, an' that she wished to 
be brought out to the chair. Weel, we indulged her, though 
we baith kent that it wasna in the bed the uneasiness 
lay. Her mind, puir body, was carried at the time. She 
just kent that there was to be a death an' a lykewake, but 
no that the death and the lykewake were to be her ain ; 
an' when she looked at the bed, she bade us tak' down the 
black curtains an' put up the white ; an' tauld us where 
the white were to be found. 

" ' But where is the corp ? ' she said ; ' it's no there. 
Where is the corp ? ' 

" ' O, Elspat ! it will be there vera soon,' said my neebor ; 
an' that satisfied her. 

" She cam' to hersel' an hour afore she departed. God 
had been very gude to her, she said, a' her life lang, an' he 
hadna forsaken her at the last. He had been gude to her 



THE LYKEWAKE. 183 

when he had gien her friens, an' gude to her when he took 
them to himsel' ; an' she kent she was now going to baith 
him an' them. There wasna such a difference, she said, 
atween life an' death as folk were ready to think. She 
was sure that, though William had been ca'ed awa sud- 
denly, he hadna been ca'ed without being prepared ; an' 
now that her turn had come, an' that she was goin' to meet 
wi' him, it was maybe as weel that he had left her early ; 
for, till she had lost him, she had been owi'e licht an' 
thochtless ; an' had it been her lot to hae lived in happi- 
ness wi' him, she micht hae remained light an' thochtless 
still. She bade us baith fareweel, an' thanked an' blessed 
us ; an' her last breath went awa' in a prayer no half an 
hour after. Puir, decent body ! But she's no puir now." 

" A pretty portrait," whispered my companion, " of one 
of a class fast wearing away. Nothing more interests me 
in the story than the woman's undoubting faith in the su- 
pernatural. She does not even seem to know that what 
she believes so firmly herself is so much as doubted by 
others. Try whether you can't bring up, by some means, 
a few other stories furnished with a similar machinery, — a 
story of the- second sight, for instance." 

"The only way of accomplishing that," I replied, "is by 
contributing a story of the kind myself." 

" The vision of the room hung in white," I said, " re- 
minds me of a story related, about a hundred and fifty 
years ago, by a very learned and very ingenious country- 
man of ours, George, first Earl of Cromarty. His lord- 
ship, a steady Royalist, was engaged, shortly before the 
Restoration (he was then, by the way, only Sir George 
Mackenzie), in raising troops for the king on his lands on 
the western coast of Ross-shire. There came on one of 
those days of rain and tempest so common in the district, 



184 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

and Sir George, with some of his friends, were storm-bound, 
in a solitary cottage, somewhere on the shores of Loch- 
broom. Towards evening one of the party went out to 
look after their horses. He had been sitting beside Sir 
George, and the chair he had occupied remained empty. 
On Sir George's servant, an elderly Highlander, coming 
in, he went up to his master, apparently much appalled, 
and, tapping him on the shoulder, urged him to rise. 
' Rise ! ' he said, ' rise ! There's a dead man sitting on 
the chair beside you".' The whole party immediately 
started to their feet ; but they saw only the empty chair. 
The dead man was visible to the Highlander alone. His 
head was bound up, he said, and his face streaked with 
blood, and one of his arms hung broken by his side. Next 
day, as a party of horsemen were passing along the steep 
side of a hill in the neighborhood, one of the horses stum- 
bled and threw its rider ; and the man, grievously injured 
by the fall, was carried in a state of insensibility to the 
cottage. His head was deeply gashed and one of his arms 
was broken, — though he ultimately recovered, — and, on 
being brought to the cottage, he was placed, in a death-like 
swoon, in the identical chair which the Highlander had 
seen occupied by the spectre. Sir George relates the story, 
with many a similar story besides, in a letter to the cele- 
brated Robert Boyle." 

" I have perused it with much interest," said my friend, 
"and wonder our booksellers should have suffered it to 
become so scarce. Do you not remember the somewhat 
similar story his lordship relates of the Highlander, who 
saw the apparition of a troop of horse ride over the brow 
of a hill and enter a field of oats, which, though it had 
been sown only a few days before, the horsemen seemed 
to cut down with their swords ? He states that, a few 



THE LYKEWAKB. 185 

months after, a troop of cavalry actually entered the same 
field, and carried away the produce for fodder to their 
horses. He tells, too, if I remember aright, that on the 
same expedition to which your story belongs, one of his 
Highlanders, on entering a cottage, started back with hor- 
ror. He had met in the passage, he said, a dead man in 
his shroud, and saw people gathering for a funeral. And, 
as his lordship relates, one of the inmates of the cottage, 
who was in pei-fect health at the time of the vision, died 
suddenly only two days after." 



CHAPTER III. 

THE STORY OF DONALD GAIR. 

" The second sight," said an elderly man who sat be- 
side me, and whose countenance had struck me as highly 
expressive of serious thought, " is fast wearing out of this 
part of the country. Nor should we much regret it per- 
haps. It seemed, if I may so speak, as something outside 
the ordinary dispositions of Providence, and, with all the 
horror and unhappiness that attended it, served no ap- 
parent good end. I have been a traveller in my youth, 
masters. About thirty years ago, I served for some time 
in the navy. I entered on the first breaking put of the 
Revolutionary war, and was discharged during the short 
peace of 1801. One of my chief companions on shipboard, 
for the first few years, was a young man, a native of Suth- 
erland, named Donald Gair. Donald, like most of his 
16* 



186 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

countrymen, was a staid, decent lad, of a rathex* melancholy 
cast ; and yet there were occasions when he could be gay 
enough too. We sailed together in the Bedford, under 
Sir Thomas Baird ; and, after witnessing the mutiny at 
the Nore, — neither of us did much more than witness it, 
for in our case it merely transferred the command of the 
vessel from a very excellent captain to a set of low Irish 
doctor's-list men, — we joined Admiral Duncan, then on 
the Dutch station. We were barely in time to take part 
in the great action. Donald had been unusually gay all 
the previous evening. We knew the Dutch had come out, 
and that there was to be an engagement on the morrow ; 
and, though I felt no fear, the thought that I might have to 
stand in a few brief hours before my Maker and my Judge 
had the effect of rendering me serious. But my com- 
panion seemed to have lost all command of himself He 
sung and leaped and shouted, not like one intoxicated, — 
there was nothing of intoxication about him, — but under 
the influence of a wild, irrepressible flow of spirits. I took 
him seriously to task, and reminded him that we might 
both at that moment be standing on the verge of death 
and judgment. But he seemed more impressed by my 
remarking that, were his mother to see him, she would say 
he was/ey. ' 

" We had never been in action before with our captain 
Sir Thomas. He was a grave, and, I believe. God-fearing 
man, and much a favorite with at least all the better sea- 
men. But we had not yet made up our minds on his 
character, — indeed, no sailor ever does with regard to his 
oflScers till he knows how they fight, — and we M'ere all 
curious to see how the parson, as we used to call him, 
would behave himself among the shot. But truly we 
might have had little fear for him. I have sailed with 



THE LYKEWAKE. 187 

Nelson, and not Nelson himself ever showed more courage 
or conduct than Sir Thomas in that action. He made us 
all lie down beside our guns, and steered us, without firing 
a shot, into the very thickest of the fight ; and when we 
did open, masters, every broadside told with fearful effect. 
I never saw a man issue his commands with more coolness 
or self-possession. 

" There are none of our continental neighbors who make 
better seamen, or who fight more doggedly, than the 
Dutch. We were in a blaze of flame for four hours. Our 
rigging was slashed to pieces, and two of our ports were 
actually knocked into one. There was one fierce, ill- 
natured Dutchman, in particular, — a fellow as black as 
night, without so much as a speck of paint or gilding 
about him, save that he had a red lion on the prow, — that 
fought us as long as he had a spar standing; and when he 
struck at last, fully one half the crew lay either dead or 
wounded on the decks, and all his scupper-holes were 
running blood as freely as ever they had done water at a 
deck-washing. The Bedford suffered nearly as severely. 
It is not in the heat of action that we can reckon on the 
loss we sustain. I saw my comrades falling around me, — 
falling by the terrible cannon-shot as they came crashing 
in through our sides; I felt, too, that our gun wrought 
more heavily as our numbers were .thinning around it ; 
and at times, when some sweeping chain-shot or fatal 
splinter laid open before me those horrible mysteiies of 
the inner man which nature so sedulously conceals, I was 
conscious of a momentary feeling of dread and horror. 
But in the prevailing mood, an unthinking anger, a dire 
thirsting after revenge, a dogged, unyielding firmness, 
were the chief ingi'edients. I strained every muscle and 
sinew; and, amid the smoke and the thunder and the 



188 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

frightful carnage, fired and loaded, and fired and loaded, 
and, with every discharge, sent out, as it were, the bitter- 
ness of my whole soul against the enemy. But very dif- 
ferent were my feelings when victory declared in our fa- 
vor, and, exhausted and unstrung, I looked abroad among 
the dead. As I crossed the deck my feet literally splashed 
in blood ; and I saw the mangled fragments of human 
bodies sticking in horrid patches to the sides and the 
beams above. There was a fine little boy aboard with 
whom I was an especial favorite. He had been engaged, 
before the action, in the construction of a toy ship, which 
he intended sending to his mother ; and I used sometimes 
to assist him, and to lend him a few simple tools ; and, 
just as we were bearing down on the enemy, he had come 
running up to me with a knife which he had borrowed 
from me a short time before. 

" ' Alick, Alick,' he said, ' I have brought you your knife ; 
we are going into action, you know, and I may be killed, 
and then you would lose it.' 

" Poor little fellow ! The first body I recognized was 
his. Both his arms had been fearfully shattered by a can- 
non-shot, and the surgeon's tourniquets, which had been 
fastened below the shoulders, were still there ; but he had 
expired ere the amputating knife had been applied. As I 
stood beside the body, little in love with war, masters, a 
comrade came up to me to say that my friend and country- 
man, Donald Gair, lay mortally wounded in the cockpit. 
I went instantly down to him. But never shall I forget,' 
though never may I attempt to describe, what I witnessed 
that day in that frightful scene of death and suffering. 
Donald lay in a low hammock, raised not a foot over the 
deck ; and there was no one beside him, for the surgeons 
had seen at a glance the hopelessness of his case, and were 



THE LYKEWAKE. 189 

busied about others of whom they had hope. He lay on 
bis back, breathing very hard, but perfectly insensible ; and 
in the middle of his forehead there was a round little hole 
without so much as a speck of blood about it, where a mus- 
ket-bullet had passed through his brain. He continued to 
breathe for about two hours ; and when he expired I 
wrapped the body decently up in a hammock, and saw it 
committed to the deep. The years passed ; and, after 
looking death in the face in many a storm and many a 
battle, peace was proclaimed, and I returned to my friends 
and my country. 

"A few weeks after my arrival, an elderly Highland 
woman, who had travelled all the way from the further side 
of Loch Shin to see me, came to our door. She was the 
mother of Donald Gair, and had taken her melancholy 
journey to hear from me all she might regarding the last 
moments and death of her son. She had no English, and 
I had not Gaelic enough to converse with her; but my 
mother, who had received her with a symj)athy all the 
deeper from the thought that her own son might have, 
been now in Donald's place, served as our interpreter. 
She was strangely inquisitive, though the little she heard 
served only to increase her grief; and you may believe it 
was not much I could find heart to tell her; for what was 
there in the circumstances of my comrade's death to afford 
pleasure to his mother ? And so I waived her questions 
regarding his wound and his burial as best I could. 

" ' Ah,' said the poor woman to my mother, 'he need not 
be afraid to tell me all. I know too, too well that my 
Donald's body was thrown into the sea ; I knew of it long 
ere it happened ; and I have long tried to reconcile my 
mind to it, tried when he was a boy even ; and so you 
need not be afraid to tell me now.' 



190 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

" ' And how,^ asked my mother, whose curiosity was 
excited, *conld you have thought of it so early ? ' 

"' I lived,' rejoined the woman, ' at the time of Donald's 
birth, in a lonely shieling among the Sutherland hills, — a 
full day's journey from the nearest church. It was a long, 
weary road, over moors and mosses. It was in the winter 
season, too, when the days are short ; and so, in bringing 
Donald to be baptized, we had to remain a night by the 
way in the house of a friend. We there found an old 
woman of so peculiar an appearance that, when she asked 
me for the child, I at first declined giving it, fearing she 
was mad and might do it harm. The people of the house, 
however, assured me she was incapable of hurting it, and 
so I placed it on her lap. She took it up in her arms, and 
began to sing to it ; but it was such a song as none of us 
had ever heard before. 

" ' Poor little stranger ! ' she said, ' thou hast come into 
the world in an evil time. The mists are on the hills, 
gloomy and dark, and the rain lies chill on the heather; 
and thou, poor little thing, hast a long journey through the 
sharp, biting winds, and thou art helpless and cold. Oh, 
but thy long after-journey is as dreary and dark ! A wan- 
derer shalt thou be, over the land and the ocean ; and in 
the ocean shalt thou lie at last. Poor little thing, I have 
waited for thee long. I saw thee in thy wanderings, and 
in thy shroud, ere thy mother brought thee to the door ; 
and the sounds of the sea and of the deadly guns are still 
ringing in my ears. Go, poor little thing, to thy mother. 
Bitterly shall she yet weep for thee, and no wonder ; but 
no one shall ever weep over thy grave, or mark where thou 
liest amid the deep green, with the shark and the seal.' 

"'From that evening,' continued the mother of my 
friend, ' I have tried to reconcile my mind to Avhat was to 



THE LYKEWAKE. 191 

happen Donald. But oh, the fond, foolish heart ! I loved 
him more than any of his brothers, because I was to lose 
him soon ; and though when he left me I took farewell of 
him for ever, — for I knew I was never, never to see him 
more, — I felt, till the news reached me of his fall in battle, 
as if he were living in his coffin. But oh ! do tell me all 
you know of his death. I am old and weak, but I have 
travelled far, far to see you, that I might hear all; and. 
surely, for the regard you bore to Donald, you will not 
suffer me to return as I came.' 

" But I need not dwell longer on the story. I imparted 
to the poor woman all the circumstances of her son's death 
as I have done to you ; and, shocking as they may seem, I 
found that she felt rather relieved than otherwise." 

" This is not quite the country of the second sight," said 
my friend ; " it is too much on the borders of the Low- 
lands. The gift seems restricted to the Highlands alone, 
and it is now fast wearing out even there." 

" And weel it is," said one of the men, " that it should 
be sae. It is surely a miserable thing to ken o' coming 
evil, if we just merely ken that it is coming, an' that come 
it must, do what we may. Hae ye ever heard the story o' 
the kelpie that wons in the Conon? " 

My friend replied in the negative. 



CHAPTER IV. 
THE STORY OF THE DOOMED RIDER. 

"The Conon," continued the man, "is as bonny a river 
as we hae in a' the north country. There's mony a sweet 



192 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

sunny spot on its banks ; an' mony a time an' aft hae I 
waded through its shallows, when a boy, to set my little 
scantling-line for the trouts an' the eels, or to gather the 
big pearl-mussels that lie sae thick in the fords. But its 
bonny wooded banks are places for enjoying the day in, 
no for passing the nicht. I kenna how it is : it's nane o' 
your wild streams, that wander desolate through desert 
country, like the Avon, or that come rushing down in 
foam and thunder, owre broken rocks, like the Foyers, or 
that wallow in darkness, deep, deep in the bowels o' the 
earth, like the fearfu' Auldgraunt ; an' yet no ane o' these 
rivers has raair or frightfuler stories connected wi' it than 
the Conon. Ane can hardly saunter owre half a mile in its 
course frae where it leaves Contin till where it enters the 
sea, without passing owre the scene o' some frightful auld 
legend o' the kelpie or the water- wraith. And ane o' the 
maist frightful-looking o' these places is to be found among 
the woods o' Conon House. Ye enter a swampy meadow, 
that waves wi' flags an' rushes like a cornfield in harvest, 
an' see a hillock covered wi' willows rising like au island in 
the midst. There are thick mirk woods on ilka side : the 
river, dark an' awesome, an' whirling round and round in 
mossy eddies, sweeps away behind it ; an' there is an auld 
burying-ground, wi' the broken ruins o' an auld Papist kirk 
on the tap. Ane can still see among the rougher stanes 
the rose-wrought mullions of an arched window an' the 
trough that ance held the holy water. About twa hunder 
years ago, — a wee raair, maybe, or a wee less, for ane 
canna be very sure o' the date o' thae auld stories, — -the 
building was entire ; an' a spot near it, where the wood 
now grows thickest, was laid out in a cornfield. The 
marks o' the furrows may still be seen amang the trees. 
A party o' Highlanders were busily engaged a'e day in 



THE LYKEWAKE. 193 

harvest in cutting down the corn o' that field; an' just 
aboot noon, when the sun shone brightest, an' they were 
busiest in the work, they heard a voice frae the river 
exclaim, ' The hour, but not the man, has come.' Sure 
enough, on looking round, there was the kelpie standin' in 
what they ca' a fause ford, just foment the auld kirk. There 
is a deep, black pool baith aboon an' below, but i' the ford 
there's a bonny ripple, that shows, as ane might think, but 
little depth o' water; an, just i' the middle o' that, in a 
place where a horse might swim, stood the kelpie. An' it 
again repeated its words, ' The hour, but not the man, has 
come'; an' then, flashing through the water like a drake, 
it disappeared in the lower pool. When the folk stood 
wondering what the creature might mean, they saw a man 
on horseback come spurring down the hill in hot haste, 
making straight for the fause foi'd. They could then un- 
derstand her words at ance ; an' four o' the stoutest o' them 
sprang oot frae amang the corn, to warn him o' his danger 
an' keep him back. An' sae they tauld him what they had 
seen an heard, an' urged him either to turn back an' tak' 
anither road or stay for an hour or sae where he was. But 
he just wadna hear them, for he was baith unbelieving an' 
in haste, an' would hae ta'en the ford for a' they could say 
hadna the Highlanders, determined on saving him whether 
he would or no, gathered round him an' pulled him frae 
his horse, an' then, to make sure o' him, locked him up in 
the auld kirk. Weel, when the hour had gone by, — the 
fatal hour o' the kelpie, — they flung open the door, an' 
cried to him that he might noo gang on his journey. Ah ! 
but there was nae answer, though ; an' sae they cried a 
second time, an' there was nae answer still ; an' then they 
went in, and found him lying stiff an' cauld on the floor, 

wi' his face buried in the water o' the very stane trough 
17 



194 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

that we may still see amang the*ruins. His hour had 
come, an' he had fallen in a fit, as 'twould seem, head fore- 
most amang the water o' the trough, where he had been 
smothered ; an' sae, ye see, the prophecy o' the kelpie 
availed nothing." 

" The very story," exclaimed my friend, " to which Sir 
Walter alludes, in one of the notes to ' The Heart of Mid-- 
Lothian.' The kelpie, you may remember, furnishes him 
with a motto to the chapter in which he describes the 
gathering of all Edinburgh to witness the execution of 
Porteous, and their irrepressible wrath on ascertaining that 
there was to be no execution, — ' The hour, but not the 
man, is come.' " 

"I remember making quite the same discovery," I re- 
plied, " about twelve years ago, when I resided for several 
months on the banks of the Conon, not half a mile from 
the scene of the story. One might fill a little book with 
legends of the Conon. The fords of the river are danger- 
ous, especially in the winter season ; and about thirty years 
ago, before the erection of the fine stone bridge below Co- 
non House, scarcely a winter passed in which fatal acci- 
dents did not occur ; and these were almost invariably 
traced to the murderous malice of the water-wraith." 

" But who or what is the water-wraith ? " said my friend. 
" We heard just now of the kelpie, and it is the kelpie that 
Sir Walter quotes." 

"Ah," I replied, "but we must not confound the kelpie 
and the water-wraith, as has become the custom in these 
days of incredulity. No two spirits, though they were 
both spirits of the lake and the river, could be more dif- 
ferent. The kelpie invariably appeared in the form of a 
young horse ; the water-wraith in that of a very tall wo- 
man, dressed in green, with a withered, meagre counte- 



THE LYKEWAKE. 195 

nance ever distorted by a malignant scowl. It is the wa- 
ter-wraith, not the kelpie, whom Sir Walter should have 
quoted ; and yet I could tell you curious stories of the 
kelpie too." 

" We must have them all," said my friend, " ere we part. 
Meanwhile, I should like to hear some of your stories of the 
Conon. 

"As related by me," I replied, " you will find them rather 
meagre in their details. In my evening walks along the 
river, I have passed the ford a hundred times out of which, 
only a twelvemonth before, as a traveller was entering it 
on a moonlight night, the water-wraith started up, not four 
yards in front of him, and pointed at him with her long 
skinny fingers, as if in mockery. I have leaned against the 
identical tree to which a poor Highlander clung when, on 
fording the river by night, he was seized by the goblin. 
A lad who accompanied him, and who had succeeded in 
gaining the bank, strove to assist him, but in vain. The 
poor man was dragged from his hold into the current, 
where he perished. The spot has been pointed out to me, 
too, in the opening of the river, where one of our Cromarty 
fishermen, who had anchored his yaAvl for the night, was 
laid hold of by the spectre when lying asleep on the beams, 
and almost dragged over the gunwale into the water. Our 
seafaring men still avoid dropping anchor, if they possibly 
can, after the sun has set, in what they term the fresh ; 
that is, in those upper parts of the frith where the waters 
of the river predominate over those of the sea. 

"The scene of what is deemed one of the best authenti- 
cated stories of the water- wraith lies a few miles higher up 
the river. It is a deep, broad ford, through which horse- 
men coming from the south pass to Brahan Castle. A 
thick wood hangs over it on the one side ; on the other it 



196 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

is skirted by a straggling line of alders and a bleak moor. 
On a winter night, about twenty-five years ago, a servant 
of the late Lord Seaforth had been drinking with some 
companions till a late hour, in a small house in the upper 
part of the moor ; and when the party broke up, he was 
accompanied by two of them to the ford. The moon was 
at full, and the river, though pretty deep in flood, seemed 
noway formidable to the servant. He was a young, vigor- 
ous man, and mounted on a powerful horse ; and he had 
forded it, when half a yard higher on the bank, twenty 
times before. As he entered the ford, a thick cloud ob- 
scured the moon ; but his companions could see him guid- 
ing the animal. He rode in a slanting direction across the 
stream until he had reached nearly the middle, when a 
dark, tall figure seemed to start out of the water and lay 
hold of him. There was a loud cry of distress and terror, 
and a frightful snorting and plunging of the horse. A 
moment passed, and the terrified animal was seen straining 
towai'ds the opposite bank, and the ill-fated rider struggling 
in the stream. In a moment more he had disappeared." 



CHAPTER V. 

THE STORY OF FAIEBURN'S GHOST. 

"I SULD weel keen the Conon," said one of the women, 
who had not yet joined in the conversation. " I was born 
no a stane's-cast frae the side o't. My mither lived in her 
last days beside the auld Tower o' Fairburn, that stands 
sae like a ghaist aboon the river, an' looks down on a' its 



THE LYKEWAKE. 197 

turns and windings frae Contin to the sea. My faither, 
too, for a twelvemonth or sae afore his death, had a boat 
on ane o' its ferries, for the crossing, on weekdays, o' pas- 
sengers, an' 6' the kii'kgoing folks on Sunday. He had a 
little bit farm beside the Conon, an' just got the boat by 
way o' eiking out his means ; for we had aye eneugh to do 
at rent-time, an' had maybe less than plenty through a' the 
rest o' the year besides. Weel, for the first ten months or 
sae the boat did brawly. The Castle o' Brahan is no half 
a mile frae the fei-ry, an' there were aye a hantle o' gran' 
folk comin' and gangin' frae the Mackenzie, an' my faither 
had the crossin' o' them a'. An' besides, at Marti'mas, the 
kirk-going people used to send him firlots o' bear an' pecks 
o' oatmeal ; an' he soon began to find that the bit boat was 
to do mair towards paying the rent o' the farm than the 
farm itsel'. 

" The Tower o' Fairburn is aboot a mile and a half aboon 
the ferry. It stands by itsel' on the tap o' a heathery hill, 
an' there are twa higher hills behind it. Beyond there 
spreads a black, dreary desert, where ane micht wander a 
lang simmer's day withoot seeing the face o' a human crea- 
ture, or the kindly smoke o' a lum. I dare say nane o' you 
hae heard hoo the Mackenzies o' Fairburn an' the Chis- 
holms o' Strathglass parted that bit o' kintra atween them. 
Nane o' them could tell where the lands o' the ane ended 
or the ither began, an' they were that way for generations, 
till they at last thocht them o' a plan o' division. Each o' 
them gat an auld wife o' seventy-five, an' they set them aff 
a'e Monday at the same time, the ane frae Erchless Castle 
an' the ither frae the Tower, warning them aforehand that 
the braidness o' their maisters' lands depended on their 
speed ; for where the twa would meet amang the hills, there 
would be the boundary. 
17* 



198 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

"You may be sure that neither o' them lingered by 
the way that morning. They kent there was mony an e'e 
on them, an' that their names would be spoken o' in the 
kintra-side lang after themsels were dead an' gane ; but it 
sae hajjpened that Fairburn's carline, wha had been his 
nurse, was ane o' the slampest women in a' the north of 
Scotland, young or auld;.an', though the ither did weel, 
she did sae meikle better that she had got owre twenty 
lang Highland miles or the ither had got owre fifteen. 
They say it was a droll sicht to see them at the meeting, 
— they were baith tired almost to fainting ; but no sooner 
did they come in sicht o' ane anither, at the distance o' a 
mile or sae, than they began to run. An' they ran, an' bet- 
ter ran, till they met at a little burnie ; an' there wad they 
hae focht, though they had ne'er seen ane anither atween 
the een afore, had they had strength eneugh left them ; 
but they had neither pith for fechtin' nor breath for seoldin', 
an' sae they just sat down an' girned at ane anither across 
the stripe. The Tower o' Fairburn is naething noo but a 
dismal ruin o' five broken stories, the ane aboon the Ither, 
an' the lands hae gane oot o' the auld family; but the story 
o' the twa auld wives is a weel-kent story still. 

" The laird o' Fairburn, in my faither's time, was as fine 
an open-hearted gentleman as was in the haill country. 
He was just particular gude to the puir; but the family 
had ever been that; ay, in their roughest days, even whan 
the Tower had neither door nor window in the lower story, 
an' only a wheen shot-holes in the story aboon. There 
wasna a puir thing in the kintra but had reason to bless 
the laird; an' at a'e time he had nae fewer than twelve 
puir orphans living about his house at ance. Nor was he 
in the least a proud, haughty man. He wad chat for hours 
thegither wi' ane o' his puirest tenants ; an' ilka time he 



THE LYKEWAKE. l&S 

crossed the ferry, he wad tak' my faither wi' him, for com- 
pany just, maybe half a mile on his way out or hame. 
Weel, it was a'e nicht about the end o' May, — a bonny 
iiicht, an hour or sae after sundown, — an' my faither was 
mooring his boat, afore going to bed, to an auld oak tree, 
whan wha does he see but the laird o' Fairburn coming 
down the bank ? Od, thocht he, what can bo takin' the 
laird frae hame sae late as this ? I thocht he had been no 
weel. The laird cam' steppin' into the boat, but, instead 
o' speakin' frankly, as he used to do, he just waved his 
hand, as the proudest gentleman in the kintra micht, an' 
pointed to the ither side. My faither rowed him across ; 
but, oh ! the boat felt unco dead an' heavy, an' the water 
stuck around the oars as gin it had been tar ; an' he had 
just eneugh ado, though there was but little tide in the 
river, to mak' oot the ither side. The laird stepped oot, 
an' then stood, as he used to do, on the bank, to gie my 
faither time to fasten his boat, an' come alang wi' him; an' 
were it no for that, the puir man wadna hae thocht o' going 
wi' him that nicht ; but as it was, he just moored his boat 
an' went. At first he thocht the laird must hae got some 
bad news that made him sae dull, an' sae he spoke on to 
amuse him, aboot the weather an' the mai'kets ; but he 
found he could get very little to say, an' he felt as arc an' 
eerie in passin' through the woods as gin he had been 
passin' alane through a kirkyard. He noticed, too, that 
there was a fearsome flichtei'ing an' shriekin' amang the 
birds that lodged in the tree-taps aboon them ; an' that, 
as they passed the Talisoe, there was a collie on the tap o' 
a hillock, that set up the awfulest yowling he had ever 
heard. He stood for a while in sheer consternation, but 
the laird beckoned him on, just as he had done at the river- 
side, an' sae he gaed a bittie further alang the wild, rocky 



200 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

glen that opens into the deer-park. But oh, the fright 
that was amang the deer ! They had been lyin' asleep on 
the knolls, by sixes an' sevens ; an' up they a' started at 
ance, and gaed driving aff to the far end o' the park as if 
they couldna be far eneugh frae my faither an' the laird. 
Weel, my faither stood again, an' the laii'd beckoned an' 
beckoned as afore ; but, Qude tak' us a' in keeping ! whan 
my faither looked up in his face, he saw it was the face o' 
a corp : it was Avhite an' stiff, an' the nose was thin an' 
sharp, an' there was nae winking wi' the wide-open een. 
Gude preserve us ! my faither didna ken where he was 
stan'in, — didna ken what he was doin' ; an', though he 
kept his feet, he was just in a kind o' swarf like. The laird 
spoke twa or three words to him, — something about the 
oi'phans, he thocht ; but he was in such a state that he 
couldna tell what ; an' when he cam' to himsel' the appa- 
rition was awa'. It was a bonny clear nicht when they 
had crossed the Conon ; but there had been a gatheriu' o' 
black cluds i' the lift as they gaed, an' there noo cam' on, 
in the clap o' a han', ane o' the fearsomest storms o' thun- 
der an' lightning that was ever seen in the country. There 
was a thick gurly aik smashed to shivers owre ray faither's 
head, though nane o' the splinters steered him ; an' whan 
he reached the river, it was roaring frae bank to brae like 
a little ocean ; for a water-spout had broken amang the 
hills, an' the trees it had torn doun wi' it were darting 
alang the current like arrows. He crossed in nae little 
danger, an' took to his bed ; an', though he raise an' went 
aboot his wark for twa or three months after, he was never, 
never his ain man again. It Avas found that the laird had 
departed no five minutes afore his apparition had come to 
the ferry; an' the very last words he had spoken — but 
his mind was carried at the time — Avas something aboot 
my faither." 



THE LYKEWAKE. 201 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE STORY OF THE LAND FACTOR. 

" There maun hae been something that weighed on his 
mind," remarked one of the women, " though your faither 
had nae power to get it frae him. I mind that, when I 
was a lassie, there happened something o' the same kind. 
My faither had been a tacksman on the estate o' Blackball ; 
an' as the land was sour an' wat, an' the seasons for a while 
backward, he aye contrived — for he was a hard-working, 
carefu' man — to keep us a' in meat and claith, and to 
meet wi' the factor. But, waes me ! he was sune ta'en 
frae us. In the middle o' the seed-time there cam' a bad 
fever intil the country ; an' the very first that died o't was 
my puir faither. My mither did her best to keep the farm, 
an' baud us a' thegither. She got a carefu', decent lad to 
manage for her, an' her ain e'e was on everything; an' had 
it no been for the cruel, cruel factor, she micht hae dune 
gey weel. But never had the puir tenant a waur friend 
than Ranald Keilly. He was a toun writer, an' had made 
a sort o' living, afore he got the factorship, just as toun 
writers do in ordiiiar'. He used to be gettiu' the baud o' 
auld wives' posies when they died ; an' there were aye 
some litigeous, troublesome folk in the place, too, that kept 
him doing a little in the way o' troublin' their neebors ; an' 
sometimes, when some daft, gowked man, o' mair means 
than sense, couldna mismanage his ain affairs eneugh, he 
got Keilly to mismanage thorn for him. An' sae he had 



202 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

picked up a bare livin' in this way; but the factorship 
made him just a gentleman. 'But, oh, an ill use did he 
mak' o' the power that it gied him owre puir, honest folk ! 
Ye maun ken that, gin they were puir, he liked them a' the 
waur for being honest ; but, I dare say, that was natural 
eneugh for the like o' him. He contrived to be baith 
"writer an' factor, ye see ; an' it wad just seem that his chief 
aim in a'e the capacity was to find employment for hirasel' 
in the ither. If a puir tenant was but a day behind-hand 
wi' his rent, he had creatures o' his ain that used to gang 
half-an'-half wi' him in their fees • "^u' them he wad send 
aft* to poind him; an' then, if the expenses o' the poinding 
werena forthcoming, as weel as what was owing to tiie 
master, he wad hae a roup o' the stocking twa or three 
days after, an' anither account, as a man o' business, for 
that. An' when things were going dog-cheap, — as he 
took care that they should sometimes gang, — he used to 
buy them in for himsel,' an' part wi' them again for maybe 
twice the money. The laird was a quiet, silly, good-na- 
tured man ; an', though he was tauld weel o' the factor at 
times, ay, an' believed it too, he just used to say: 'Oh, 
puir Keilly, what wad he do gin I were to part wi' him ? 
He wad just starve,' An' oh, sirs, his pity for him was 
bitter cruelty to mony, mony a puir tenant, an' to my 
mither amang the hive. 

" The year after my faither's death was cauld an' wat, an' 
oor stuff remained sae lang green that we just thocht we 
wouldna get it cut ava. An' when we did get it cut, the 
stacks, for the first whilie, were aye heatin' wi' us ; an' when 
Marti'mas came, the grain was still saft an' milky, an' no fit 
for the market. The term cam' round, an' there was little 
to gie the factor in the shape o' money, though there was 
baith corn and cattle; an' a' that we wanted was just a 



THE LYKEWAKE. 

little time. Ah, but we had fa'en into the hands o' ane 
that never kent pity. My mither hadna the money gin, as 
it were, the day, an' on the morn the messengers came to 
jDoind. The roup was no a week after ; an' oh, it was a 
grievous sicht to see how the crop an' the cattle went for 
just naething. The farmers were a' puirly aff with the late 
ha'rst, an' had nae money to spare ; an' sae the factor 
knocked in ilka thing to himsel', wi' hardly a bid against 
him. He was a rough-faced little man, wi' a red, hooked 
nose, a gude deal gi'cn to whiskey, an' very wild an' des- 
perate when he had ta'en a glass or twa aboon ordinar' ; 
an' on the day o'the roup he raged like a perfect madman. 
My mither spoke to him again an' again, wi' the tear in her 
e'e, an' imj^lored him, for the sake o' the orphan an' the 
widow, no to hurry hersel' an' her bairns; but he just 
cursed an' swore a' the mair, an' knocked down the stacks 
an' the kye a' the faster; an' whan she spoke to him o' 
the Ane aboon a', he said that Providence gied lang credit 
an' reckoned on a lang day, an' that he wald tak' him intil 
his ain hands. Weel, the roup cam' to an end, an' the 
sum o' the whole didna come to meikle mair nor the rent 
an' clear the factor's lang, lang account for expenses ; au' 
at nicht ray mither was a ruined woman. The factor staid 
up late an' lang, drinkin' wi' some creatures o' his ain ; an' 
the last words he said on going to his bed was, that he 
hadna made a better day's wark for a twelvemonth. But, 
Gude tak' us a' in keeping ! in the morning he was a corp, 
— a cauld lifeless corp, wi' a face as black as my bonnet. 

" Weel, he was buried, an' there was a grand character 
o* him putten in the newspapers, an' we a' thocht we were 
to hear nae mair about him. My mither got a wee bittie 
o' a house on the farm o' a neebor, and there we lived 
dowie eneugh ; but she was aye an eidenj, worki^' woman 



204 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

an' she now span late an' early for some o' her auld friends, 
the farmers' wives ; an' her sair-won penny, wi' what we 
got frae kindly folk wha minded us in better times, kept 
us a' alive. Meanwhile, strange stories o' the dead factor 
began to gang aboot the kintra. First, his servants, it 
was said, were hearing arc, curious noises in his coimting- 
office. The door was baith locked an' sealed, waiting till 
his friends would cast uj), for there were some doots aboot 
them ; but, locked an' sealed as it was, they could hear it 
opening an' shutting every nicht, an' hear a rustlin' among 
the papers, as gin there had been half a dozen writers 
scribblin' amang them at ance. An' then, Gude preserve 
us a' ! they could hear Keilly himsel', as if he were dictat- 
ing to his clerk. An', last o' a', they could see him in the 
gloamin', nicht an moi'nin', ganging aboot his house wring- 
ing his hands, an' aye, aye muttering to himsel' aboot roups 
and poindings. The servant girls left the place to himsel' ; 
an' the twa lads that wrought his farm an' slept in a hay- 
loft, weresae disturbed nicht after nicht, that they hadjust 
to leave it to himsel' too. 

"My mither was a'e nicht wi' some a' her spinnin' at a 
neeborin' farmer's, — a worthy. God-fearing man, an' an 
elder o' the kirk. It was in the simmer time, an' the nicht 
was bricht an' bonny ; but, in her backcoming, she had to 
pass the empty house o' the dead factor, an' the elder said 
that he would take a step hame wi' her, for fear she 
michtna be that easy in her mind. An' the honest man 
did sae. Naething happened them in the passin', except 
that a dun cow, ance a great favorite o' my mither's, cam' 
lowing up to them, puir beast, as gin she would hae better 
liked to be gaun hame wi' my mother than stay where she 
was. But the elder didna get aff sae easy in the back- 
coming. He was passin' beside a thick hedge, whan what 



THE LYKEWAKE. ."205 

does he see, but a man inside the hedge, takin' step for 
step wi' him as he gaed ! The man wore a dun coat, an 
had a hunting- Avhip under his arm, an' walked, as the elder 
thocht, very like what the dead factor used to do when he 
had gotten a glass or twa aboon ordinar. Weel, they cam' 
to a slap in the hedge, an' out cam' the man at the slap ; 
an' Gude tak' us a' in keeping I it was sure enough the 
dead factor himsel'. There were his hook nose, an' his 
rough, red face, — though it was maybe bluer noo than 
red, — an' there were the boots an' the dun coat he had 
worn at my mither's roup, an' the very whip he had lashed 
a puir gangrel woman wi' no a week before his death. He 
was mutterin' something to himsel' ; but the elder could 
only hear a wordie noo an' then. 'Poind an' roup, ' he 
would say, — ' poind an' roup' ; an' then there would come 
out a blatter o' curses. — 'Hell, hell! an' damn, damn! 
The elder was a wee fear-stricken at first, — as wha wadna ? 
— but then the ill words an' the way they were said made 
him angry, — for he could never bear ill words without 
checking them, — an' sae he turned round wi' a stern brow, 
an' asked the appearance what it wanted, an' why it should 
hae come to disturb the peace o' the kintra, and to disturb 
him ? It stood still at that, an' said, wi' an awsome grane, 
that it couldna be quiet in the grave till there was some 
justice done to Widow Stuart. It then tauld him that 
there Avere forty gowd guineas in a secret drawer in his 
desk, that hadna been found, an' tauld him where to get 
them, an' that he wad need gang wi' the laird an' the min- 
ister to the drawer, an' gie them a' to the widow. It 
couldna hae rest till then, it said, nor wad the kintra hae 
rest either. It willed that the lave o' the gear should be 
gien to the poor o' the parish ; for nane o' the twa folk 
that laid claim to it had the shadow o' a right. An' wi' 



206 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

that the appearance left him. It just went back through 
the slap in the hedge ; an' as it stepped owre the ditch, 
vanished in a puff o' smoke. 

" Weel, — but to cut short a lang story, — the laird and 
the minister were at first gay slow o' belief; no that they 
misdoubted the elder, but they thocht that he must hae 
been deceived by a sort o' wakin' dream. But they soon 
changed their minds, for, sure enough, they found the forty 
guineas in a secret drawer. An' the news they got frae 
the south about Keilly was just as the appearance had said; 
no ane mair nor anither had a richt to his gear, for he had 
been a foundlin', an' had nae friends. An' sae my mither 
got the guineas, an' the parish got the rest, an' there was 
nae mair heard o' the apparition. We didna get back oor 
auld farm ; but the laird gae us a bittie that served oor 
turn as weel ; an' or my mither was ca'ed awa frae us, we 
were a' settled in the warld, an' doin' for oorsels." 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE STORY OF THE MEALMONGER. 

" It is wonderful," remarked the decent-looking, elderly 
man who had contributed the story of Donald Gair, — " it 
is wonderful how long a recollection of that kind may live 
in the memory Avithout one's knowing it is there. There 
is no possibility of one taking an inventory of one's recol- 
lections. They live unnoted and asleep, till roused by 
some likeness of themselves, and then up they start, and 



THE LYKEWAKE. 207 

answer to it, as ' face answereth to face in a glass.' There 
comes a story into my mind, much like the last, that has 
lain there all unknown to me for the last thirty years, nor 
have I heard anyone mention, it since ; and yet when I 
was a boy no story could be better known. You have all 
heard of the dear years that followed the harvest of '40, 
and how fearfully they bore on the poor. The scarcity, 
doubtless, came mainly from the hand of Providence, and 
yet man had his share in it too. There were forestall- 
ers of the market, who gathered their miserable gains by 
heightening the already enormous price of victuals, thxas 
adding starvation to hunger; and among the best known 
and most execrated of these was one M'Kechan, a resi- 
denter in the neighboring parish. He was a hard-hearted 
foul-spoken man ; and often what he said exasperated the 
people as much against him as what he did. When, on 
one occasion, he bought up all the victuals in a market, 
there was a wringing of hands among the women, and they 
cursed him to his face ; but when he added insult to injury, 
and told them, in his pride, that he had not left them an 
ounce to foul their teeth, they would that instant have 
taken his life, had not his horse carried him through. He 
was a mean, too, as well as a hard-hearted man, and used 
small measures and light weights. But he made money, 
and deemed himself in a fair way of gaining a charncter 
on the strength of that alone, when he was seized by a 
fever, and died after a few days' illness. Solomon tells us, 
that when the wicked perish there is shouting ; there was 
little grief in the sheriffdom when M'Kechan died ; but his 
relatives buried him decently ; and, in the course of the 
next fortnight, the meal fell twopence the peck. You know 
the burying-ground of St. Bennet's : the chapel has long 
since "been ruinous, and a row of wasted elms, with white 



208 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

skeleton-looking tops, run around the enclosure and look 
over the fields that surround it on every side. It lies 
out of the way of any thoroughfare, and months may some- 
times pass, when burials are unfrequent, in which no one 
goes near it. It was in St. Bennet's that M'Kechan was 
buried ; and the people about the farm-house that lies 
nearest it were surprised, for the first month after his 
death, to see the figure of a man, evening and morning, 
just a few minutes before the sun had risen and a few 
after it had set, walking round the yard under the elms 
three times, and always disappearing when it had taken the 
last turn beside an old tomb near the gate. It was of course 
always clear daylight when they saw the figure ; and the 
month passed ere they could bring themselves to suppose 
that it was other than a thing of flesh and blood, like them- 
selves. The strange regularity of its visits, however, at 
length bred suspicion ; and the farmer himself, a plain, de- 
cent man, of more true courage than men of twice the pre- 
tence, determined one evening on watching it. He took 
his place outside the wall a little before sunset ; and no 
sooner had the red light died away on the elm-tops, than 
up started the figure from among the ruins on the opposite 
side of the burying-ground, and came onward in its round, 
muttering incessantly as it came, ' Oh, for mercy sake, 
for mercy sake, a handful of meal ! I am starving, I am 
starving : a handful of meal ! ' And then, changing its tone 
into one still more doleful, ' Oh,' it exclaimed, ' alas for 
the little lippie and the little peck ! alas for the little lippie 
and the little peck ! ' As it passed, the farmer started up 
from his seat ; and there, sure enough, was M'Kechan, the 
corn-factor, in his ordinary dress, and, except that he was 
thinner and paler than usual, like a man suffering ^fi-om 
hunger, presenting nearly his ordinary appearance. The 



THE LYKEWAKE. 209 

figure passed with a slow, gliding sort of motion ; and, turn- 
ing the further corner of the burying-ground, came onward 
in its second round ; but the firmer, though he had felt 
rather curious than afraid as it went by, found his heart fail 
him as it approached the second time, and, without waiting 
its coming up, set off homeward through the corn. The 
apparition continued to take its rounds evening and morn- 
ing for about two months after, and then disappeared for 
ever. Mealmongers had to forget the story, and to grow a 
little less afraid, ere they could cheat with their accustomed 
coolness. Believe me, such beliefs, whatever may be 
thought of them in the present day, have not been without 
their use in the past." 

As the old man concluded his story, one of the women 
rose to a table in the little room and replenished our glasses. 
We all drank in silence. 

" It is within an hour of midnight," said one of the men, 
looking at his watch. " We had better recruit the tire, and 
draw in our chairs. The air aye feels chill at a lykewake 
or a burial. At this time to-morrow we will be lifting the 
corpse." 

There was no reply. We all drew in our chairs nearer 
the fire, and for several minutes there was a pause in the 
conversation ; but there were more stories to be told, and 
before the morning many a spirit was evoked from the 
grave, the vast deep, and the Highland stream. 
18* 



VI. 
BILL WHYTE. 

CHAPTER I. 

'Tis the Mind that makes the Body quick; 

And as the Sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 

So Honor peereth in the meanest habit. 

Shakspeare. • 

I HAD occasion, about three years ago, to visit the an- 
cient burgh of Fortrose. It was early in winter ; the days 
were brief, though pleasant, and the nights long and dark ; 
and, as there is much in Fortrose which the curious trav- 
eller deems interesting, I had lingered amid its burying- 
grounds and its broken and mouldering tenements till the 
twilight had fairly set in. I had exj^lored the dilapidated 
ruins of the Chanonry of Ross ; seen the tomb of old Ab- 
bot Boniface and the bell blessed by the Pope ; run over 
the complicated tracery of the Runic obelisk, which had 
been dug up, about sixteen years before, from under the 
foundations of the old parish church ; and visited the low, 
long house, with its upper windows buried in the thatch, in 
which the far-famed Sir James Mackintosh had received 
the first rudiments of his education. And in all this I had 
been accompanied by a benevolent old man of the place, 
a mighty chronicler of the past, who, when a boy, had sat 



BILL WHYTE. 211 

on the same form with Sir James, and who on this occasion 
had seemed quite as delighted in meeting with a patient 
and interested listener as I had been in finding so intelli- 
gent and enthusiastic a storyist. There was little wonder, 
then, that twilight should have overtaken me in such a 
place, and in such company. 

There are two roads which run between Cromarty and 
Fortrose, — the one the king's highway, the other a nar- 
row footpath that goes winding for several miles under the 
immense wall of cliffs which overhangs the noi'thern shores 
of the Moray Frith, and then ascends to the top by narrow 
and doubtful traverses along the face of an immense prec- 
ipice termed the Scarf's Crag, The latter route is by far 
the more direct and more pleasant of the two to the day- 
traveller; but the man should think twice who proposes 
taking it by night. The Scarf's Crag has been a scene of 
frightful accidents for the last two centuries. It is not yet 
more than twelve years since a young and very active man 
was precipitated from one of its higher ledges to the very 
beach, — a sheer descent of nearly two hundred feet ; and 
a multitude of little cairns which mottle the sandy platform 
below bear witness to the not unfrequent occurrence of 
such casualties in the remote past. With the knowledge 
of all this, however, I had determined on taking the more 
perilous road. It is fully two miles shorter than the other; 
and, besides, in a life of undisturbed security a slight ad- 
mixture of that feeling which the sense of danger awakens 
is a luxury which I have always deemed worth one's while 
running some little risk to procure. The night fell thick 
and dark while I was yet hurrying along the footway 
which leads xmder the cliffs ; and, on reaching the Scarf's 
Crag, I could no longer distinguish the path, nor even 
catch the huge outline of the precipice between me and 



212 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

the sky. I knew that the moon rose a little after nine, 
but it was still early in the evening ; and, deeming it too 
long to wait its rising, I set myself to grope for the path, 
when, on tui-ning an abrupt angle, I was dazzled by a sud- 
den blaze of light from an opening in the rock. A large 
fire of furze and brushwood blazed merrily from the inte- 
rior of a low-browed but spacious cave, bronzing with dusky 
yellow the huge volume of smoke which went rolling out- 
wards along the roof, and falling red and strong on the 
face and hands of a thick-set, determined-looking man, 
well-nigh in his sixtieth year, who was seated before it on 
a block of stone. I knew him at once, as an intelligent, 
and, in the main, rather respectable gipsy, whom I had 
once met with about ten years before, and who had seen 
some service as a soldier, it was said, in the first British 
expedition to Egypt. The sight of his fire determined me 
at once. I resolved on passing the evening with him till 
the rising of the moon ; and, after a brief explanation, and 
a blunt, though by no means unkind invitation to a place 
beside his fire, I took my seat, fronting him, on a block of 
granite which had been rolled from the neighboring beach. 
In less than half an hour we were on as easy terras as if 
we had been comrades for years ; and, after beating over 
fifty difierent topics, he told me the story of his life, and 
found an attentive and interested auditor. 

Who of all ray readers is unacquainted with Goldsmith's 
admirable stories of the sailor with the wooden leg and 
the poor half-starved merry-andrew ? Independently of 
the exquisite humor of the writer, they are suited to in- 
terest us from the sort of cross vistas Avhich they open into 
scenes of life wliere every thought and aim and incident 
has at once all the freshness of novelty and all the truth 
of nature to recommend it. And I felt nearly the same 



BILL WHYTE. 213 

kind of interest in listening to the narrative of the gipsy. 
It was much longer than either of Goldsmith's stories, and 
perhaps less characteristic ; but it presented a rather curi- 
ous picture of a superior nature rising to its proper level 
through circumstances the most adverse ; and, in the main, 
pleased me so well, that I think I cannot do better than 
present it to the reader. 

" I was born, master," said the gipsy, " in this very cave, 
some sixty years ago, and so am a Scotchman like yourself. 
My mother, however, belonged to the Debatable-land ; 
my father was an Englishman ; and of my five sisters, one 
first saw the light in Jersey, another in Guernsey, a third 
in Wales, a fourth in Ireland, and the fifth in the Isle of 
Man. But this is a trifle, master, to what occurs in some 
families. It can't be much less than fifty years since my 
mother left us, one bright sunny day, on the English side 
of Kelso, and staid away about a week. We thought we 
had lost her altogether; but back she came at last; and 
when she did come, she brought with her a small sprig of 
a lad of about three summers or thereby. Father grum- 
bled a little. We had got small fry enough already, he said, 
and bare enough and hungry enough they were at times ; 
but mother showed him a pouch of yellow pieces, and 
there was no more grumbling. And so we called the little 
fellow Bill Whyte, as if he had been one of ourselves; and 
he grew up among us, as pretty a fellow as e'er the sun 
looked upon. I was a few years his senior ; but he soon 
contrived to get half a foot ahead of me ; and when we 
quarrelled, as boys will at times, master, I always came off 
second best. I never knew a fellow of a higher spirit. He 
would rather starve than beg, a hundred times over, and 
never stole in his life ; but then for gin-setting, and deer- 
stalking, and black-fishing, not a poacher in the country 



214 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

got beyond him ; and when there was a smuggler in the 
Solway, who more active than Bill ? He was barely nine- 
teen, poor fellow, when he made the country too hot to 
hold him. I remember the night as well as if it were yes- 
terday. The Cat-maran lugger was in the Frith, d'ye see, 
a little below Caerlaverock ; and father and Bill, and some 
half-dozen more of our men, were busy in bumping the 
kegs ashore, and hiding them in the sand. It was a thick, 
smuggy night: we could hardly see fifty yards around us ; 
and on our last trip, master, when we were down in the 
water to the gunwale, who should come upon us, in the 
turning of a handspike, but the revenue lads from Kirk- 
cudbright ! They hailed us to strike, in the devil's name. 
Bill swore he wouldn't. Flash went a musket, and the 
ball whistled through his bonnet. Well, he called on them 
to row up, and up they came ; but no sooner were they 
within half-oar's length, than, taking up a keg, and raising 
it just as he used to do the putting-stone, he made it spin 
through their bottom as if the planks were of window 
glass, and down went their cutter in half a jiffy. They 
had wet powder that night, and fired no more bullets. 
Well, when they were gathering themselves up as they 
best could, — and, goodness be praised ! there were no 
drownings amongst them, — we bumped our kegs ashore, 
hiding them with the others, and then fled up the country. 
We knew there would be news of our night's work ; and 
so there was ; for before next evening there were adver- 
tisements on every post for the apprehension of Bill, with 
an offered reward of twenty pounds. 

"Bill was a bit of a scholar, — so am I, for that matter, 
— and the papers stared him on every side. 

" ' Jack,' he said to me, — ' Jack Whyte, this will never 
do : the law's too strong for us now ; and if I don't make 



BILL WHYTE. 215 

away with myself, they'll either have me tucked up or 
sent over the seas to slave for life. I'll tell you what I'll 
do. I stand six feet in my stocking-soles, and good men 
were never more wanted than at present. I'll cross the 
country this very night, and away to Edinburgh, where 
there are troops raising for foreign service. Better a 
musket than the gallows!' 

" ' Well, Bill,' I said, ' I don't care though I go with you. 
I'm a good enough man for my inches, though I ain't so 
tall as you, and I'm woundily tired of spoon-making.' 

"And so off we set across the country that very minute, 
travelling by night only, and passing our days in any hid- 
ing hole we could find, till we reached Edinburgh, and 
there we took the bounty. Bill made as pretty a soldier 
as one could have seen in a regiment ; and, men being 
scarce, I wasn't rejected neither ; and after just three 
weeks' drilling, — and plaguey weeks they were, — we 
were shipped off. fully finished, for the south. Bonaparte 
had gone to Egypt, and we were sent after him to ferret 
him out ; though we weren't told so at the time. And it 
was our good luck, master, to be put aboard of the same 
ti'ansport. 

" Nothing like seeing the world for making a man smart. 
We had all sorts of people in our regiment, from the 
broken-down gentleman to the broken-down lamplighter ; 
and Bill was catching from the best of them all he could. 
He knew he wasn't a gipsy, and had always an eye to get- 
ting on in the world ; and as the voyage was a woundy 
long one, and we had the regimental schoolmaster aboard, 
Bill was a smarter fellow at the end of it than he had been 
at the beginning. Well, we reached Aboukir Bay at last. 
You have never been in Egypt, master; but just look 
across the Moray Frith here, on a sunshiny day, and you 



216 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

will see a picture of it, if you but strike off the blue High- 
land hills, that rise behind, from the long range of low 
sandy hillocks that stretches away along the coast betweeri 
Findhorn and Nairn. "I don't think it was worth all the 
trouble it cost us ; but the king surely knew best. Bill 
and I were in the first detachment, and we had to clear 
the way for the rest. The French were drawn up on the 
shore, as thick as flies on a dead snake, and the bullets 
rattled round us like a shower of May hail. It was a glo- 
rious sight, master, for a bold heart. The entire line of 
sandy coast seemed one unbroken streak of fire and smoke ; 
and we could see the old tower of Aboukir rising like a 
fiery dragon at the one end, and the straggling village of 
Rosetta, half-cloud half-flame, sti'etching away on the other. 
There was a line of launches and gunboats behind us, that 
kept up an incessant fire on the enemy, and shot and shell 
went booming over our heads. We rowed shorewards, 
under a canopy of smoke and flame : the water was broken 
by ten thousand oars ; and never, master, have you heard 
such cheering ; it drowned the roar of the very cannon. 
Bill and I pulled at the same oar ; but he bade me cheer, 
and leave the pulling to him. 

" ' Cheer, Jack,' he said, ' cheer ! I am strong enough to 
pull ten oars, and your cheering does my heart good.' 

" I could see, in the smoke and the confusion, that there 
was a boat stove by a shell just beside us, and the man 
immediately behind me was shot through the head. But 
we just cheered and pulled all the harder; and the mo- 
ment our keel touched the shore we leaped out into the 
water, middle deep, and, after one well-directed volley, 
charged up the beach with our bayonets fixed. I missed 
footing in the hurry, just as we closed, and a big-whiskered 
fellow in blue would have pinned me to the sand had not 



BILL WHYTE. 217 

Bill struck him through the wind-pipe, and down he fell 
above me ; but when I strove to rise from under him, he 
grappled with me in his death agony, and the blood and 
breath came rushing through his wound in my face. Ere 
I had thrown him off my comrades had broken the enemy 
and were charging up the side of a sand-hill, where there 
were two field-pieces stationed that had sadly annoyed us 
in the landing. There came a shower of grape-shot whist- 
ling round me, that carried away my canteen and turned 
me half round ; and when I looked up, I saw, through the 
smoke, that half my comrades were swept away by the 
discharge, and that the survivors were fighting desperately 
over the two guns, hand-to-hand with the enemy. Ere I 
got up to them, however, — and, trust me, master, I didn't 
linger, — the guns were our own. Bill stood beside one 
of them, all grim and bloody, with his bayonet dripping 
like an eaves-spout in a shower. He had struck down five 
of the French, besides the one he had levelled over me ; 
and now, all of his own accord, — for our sergeant had been 
killed, — he had shotted the two pieces and turned them 
on the enemy. They all scampered down the hill, master, 
on the first discharge, — all save one brave, obstinate fel- 
low, who stood firing upon us, not fifty yards away, half 
under cover of a sand-bank. I saw him load thrice ere I 
could hit him, and one of his balls whisked through my 
hat ; but I catched him at last, and down he fell. My 
bullet went right through his forehead. We had no more 
fighting that day. The French fell back on Alexandria, 
and our troops advanced about three miles into the coun- 
try, over a dreary waste of sand, and then lay for the night 
on their arms. 

" In the morning, when we were engaged in cooking our 
breakfasts, master, making what fires we could with the 
19 



218 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

withered leaves of the date-tree, our colonel and two 
officers came up to us. The colonel was an Englishman, as 
brave a gentleman as ever lived, aye, and as kind an officer 
too. lie was a fine-looking old man, as tall as Bill, and as 
well built too ; but his health was much broken. It was 
said he had entered the army out of break-heart on losing 
his wife. Well, he came up to us, I say, and shook Bill by 
the hand as cordially as if he had been a colonel like him- 
self. He was a brave, good soldier, he said, and, to show 
him how much he valued good men, he had come to make 
him a sergeant, in room of the one he had lost. He had 
heard he was a scholar, he said, and he trusted his conduct 
would not disgrace the halberd. Bill, you may be sure, 
thanked the colonel, and thanked him, master, very like a 
gentleman ; and that very day he swaggered scarlet and a 
sword, as pretty a sergeant as the army could boast of; 
aye, and for that matter, though his experience was little, 
as fit for his place. 

" For the first fortnight we didn't eat the king's biscuit 
for nothing. We had terrible hard fighting on the 13th ; 
and, had not our ammunition failed us, we would have 
beaten the enemy all to rags ; but for the last two hours 
we hadn't a shot, and stood just like so many targets set 
up to be fired at. I was never more fixed in my life than 
when I saw ray comrades falling around me, and all for 
jiothing. Not only could I see them falling, but, in the 
absence of every other noise, — for we had ceased to cheer, 
and stood as silent and as hard as foxes, — I could hear 
the dull, hollow sound of the shot as it pierced them 
through. Sometimes the bullets struck the sand, and then 
rose and went rolling over the level, raising clouds of dust 
at every skip. At times we could see them coming through 
the air like little clouds, and singing all the way as they 



BILL WHYTE. 219 

came. But it was the frightful smoking shot that annoyed 
us most — these horrid shells. Sometimes they broke over 
our heads iu the air as if a cannon charged with grape had 
been fired at us from out the clouds. At times they sank 
into the sand at our feet, and then burst up like so many 
Vesuviuses, giving at once death and burial to hundreds. 
But we stood our ground, and the day passed. I remem- 
ber we got, towards evening, into a snug hollow between 
two sand-hills, where the shot skimmed over us, not tAvo 
feet above our heads ; but two feet is just as good as 
twenty, master; and I began to think, for the first time, 
that I hadn't got a smoke all day. I snapped my musket 
and lighted my pipe ; and Bill, whom I hadn't seen since 
the day after the landing, came up to share with me. 

" ' Bad day's work. Jack,' he said ; ' but we have at least 
taught the enemy what British soldiers can endure, and 
ere long we shall teach them something more. But here 
comes a shell ! Nay, do not move,' he said ; ' it will fall 
just ten yards short.' And down it came, roaring like a 
tempest, sure enough, about ten yards away, and sank into 
the sand. ' There now, fairly lodged,' said Bill ; ' lie down, 
lads, lie down.' We threw ourselves flat on our faces ; 
the earth heaved under us like a wave of the sea ; and in 
a moment Bill and I were covered with half a ton of sand. 
But the pieces whizzed over us; and, save that the man 
who was aci'oss me had an ammunition-bag carried away, 
not one of us more than heard them. On getting our- 
selves disinterred, and our pipes re-lighted, Bill, with a 
twitch on the elbow — so — said he wished to speak with 
me a little apart ; and we went out together into a hol- 
low in front. 

"'You will think it strange, Jack,' he said, ' that all this 
day, when the enemy's bullets were hojjping around us like 



220 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

hail, there was but just one idea that filled my mind, and I 
could find room for no other. Ever since I saw Colonel 
Westhope, it has been forced upon me, through a newly- 
awakened, dream-like recollection, that he is the gentleman 
with whom I lived ere I was taken away by your people ; 
for taken away I must have been. Your mother used to 
tell me that my father was a Cumberland gipsy, who met 
with some bad accident from the law ; but I am now con- 
vinced she must have deceived me, and that ray father was 
no such sort of man. You will think it strange, but when 
putting on my coat this morning, my eye caught the silver 
bar on the sleeve, and there leaped into my mind a vivid 
recollection of having worn a scarlet dress before, — scar- 
let bound with silver, — and that it was in the house of a 
gentleman and lady whom I had just learned to call papa 
and mamma. And every time I see the colonel, as I say, 
I am reminded of the gentleman. Now, for heaven's sake, 
Jack, tell me all you know about me. You are a few years 
my senior, and must remember better than I can myself 
under what circumstances I joined your tribe.' 

" ' Why, Bill,' I said, ' I knoAv little of the matter, and 
'twere no great wonder though these bullets should con- 
fuse me somewhat in recalling what I do know. Most 
certainly we never thought you a gipsy like ourselves ; but 
then I am sure mother never stole you ; she had family 
enough of her own ; and, besides, she brought with her 
for your board, she said, a purse with more gold in it than 
I have seen at one time before or since. I remember it 
kept us all comfortably in the creature for a whole twelve- 
month ; and it wasn't a trifle, Bill, that could do that. 
You Avere at first like to die among us. You hadn't been 
accustomed to sleeping out, or to food such as ours. And, 
dear me ! how the rags you were dressed in used to annoy 



BILL WHYTE. 221 

you ; but you soon got over all, Bill, and became the har- 
diest little fellow among us. I once heard my mother say 
that you were a love-begot^ and that your father, who was 
an English gentleman, had to jjart from both you and your 
mother on taking a wife. And no more can I tell you, 
Bill, for the life of me.' 

"We slept that night on the sand, master, and found in 
the morning that the enemy had fallen back some miles 
nearer Alexandria. Next evening there was a party of us 
despatched on some secret service across the desert. Bill 
was with us; but the officer under whose special charge 
we were placed was a Captain Turpic, a nephew of Colonel 
Westhope, and his heir. But he heired few of his good 
qualities. He was the son of a pettifogging lawyer, and 
was as heartily hated by the soldiers as the colonel was be- 
loved. Towards sunset the party reached a hollow valley 
in the waste, and there rested, preparatory, as we all in- 
tended, for passing the night. Some of us were engaged 
in erecting temporary huts of branches, some in providing 
the necessary materials; and we had just formed a snug- 
little camp, and were preparing to light our fires for supper, 
when we heard a shot not two furlongs away. Bill, who 
was by far the most active among us, sprang up one of the 
tallest date trees to reconnoitre. But he soon came down 
again. 

'"We have lost our pains this time,' he said; 'there is 
a party of French, of fully five times our number, not half 
a mile away.' The captain, on the news, wasn't slow, as 
you may think, in ordering us off; and, hastily gathering 
up our blankets and the contents of our knapsacks, we 
struck across the sand just as the sun was setting. There 
is scarce any twilight in Egypt, master; it is pitch dark 
twenty minutes after sunset. The first part of the evening, 
19* 



222 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

too, is infinitely disagreeable. The days are burning hot, 
and not a cloud can be seen in the sky; but no sooner has 
the sun gone down than there comes on a thick white fog 
that covers the whole country, so that one can't see fifty 
yards around ; and so icy cold is it, that it strikes a chill 
to the very heart. It is with these fogs that the dews 
descend ; and deadly things they are. Well, the mist and 
the darkness came upon us at once ; we lost all reckoning, 
and, after floundering on for an hour or so among the sand- 
hills, our captain called a halt, and bade us burrow as we 
best might among the hollows. Hungry as we were we 
were fain to leave our supper to begin the morning with, 
and huddled all together into what seemed a deep, dry 
ditch. We were at first surprised, master, to find an im- 
mense heap of stone under us, — we couldn't have lain 
harder had we lain on a Scotch cairn, — and that, d'ye see, 
is unusual in Egypt, where all the sand has been blown by 
the hot winds from the desert, hundreds of miles away, 
and where, in the course of a few days' journey, one 
mayn't see a pebble larger than a pigeon's egg. There 
were hard, round, bullet-like masses under us, and others 
of a more oblong shape, like pieces of wood that had been 
cut for fuel ; and, tired as we were, their sharp points, pro- 
truding through the sand, kept most of us from sleep. But 
that was little, master, to what we felt afterwards. As we 
began to take heat together, there broke out among us a 
most disagi'oeable stench, — bad at first, but unlike any- 
thing I had felt before, but at last altogether overpowering. 
Some of us became dead sick, and some, to show how 
much bolder they were than the rest, began to sing. One 
half the party stole away, one by one, and lay down out- 
side. For my own part, master, I thought it was the 
plague that was breaking out upon us from below, and lay 



BILL WHYTE. 223 

still in despair of escaping it. I was wretchedly tired too ; 
and, despite of my fears and the stench, I fell asleep, and 
slept till daylight. But never before, master, did I see 
such a sight as when I awoke. We had been sleeping on 
the carcasses of ten thousand Turks, whom Bonaparte had 
massacred about a twelvemonth before. There were eye- 
less skulls, grinning at us by hundreds from the side of the 
ditch, and black, withered hands and feet stickiiig out, 
with the white bones glittei-ing between the shrunken 
sinews. The very sand, for roods around, had a brown fer- 
ruginous tinge, and seemed baked into a half-solid mass 
resembling clay. It was no place to loiter in, and you 
may trust me, master, we breakfasted elsewhere. Bill kept 
close to our captain all that morning. He didn't much like 
him, even so early in their acquaintance as this, — no one 
did, in fact, — but he was anxious to leai'n from hira all he 
could regarding the colonel. Pie told him, too, something 
about his own early recollections ; but he would better 
have kept them to himself From that hour, master. Cap- 
tain Turpic never gave him a pleasant look, and sought 
every means to ruin him. 

" We joined the array again on the evening of the 20th 
March. You know, master, what awaited us next morning. 
I had been marching, on the day of our arrival, for twelve 
hours under a very hot sun, and was fiatigued enough to 
sleep soundly. But the dead might have awakened next 
morning. The enemy broke in upon us about three o'clock. 
It was pitch dark. I had been dreaming, at the moment, 
that I was busily engaged in the landing, fighting in the 
front rank beside Bill ; and I awoke to hear the enemy 
outside the tent struggling in fierce conflict with such of 
my comrades as, half-naked and half-armed, had been 
roused by the first alarm, and had rushed out to oppose 



224 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

them. You will not think that I was long in joining them, 
master, when I tell you that Bill himself was hardly two 
steps ahead of me. Colonel Westhope was everywhere at 
once that morning, bringing his men, in the darkness and 
the confusion, into something like order, — threatening, 
encouraging, applauding, issuing orders, all in a breath. 
Just as we got out, the French broke through beside our 
tent, and we saw him struck down in the throng. Bill 
gave a tremendous cry of 'Our colonel! our colonel!' and 
struck his pike up to the cross into the breast of the fel- 
low who had given the blow. And hardly had that one 
fallen than he sent it crashing through the face of the next 
foremost, till it lay buried in the brain. The enemy gave 
back for a moment ; and as he was striking down a third 
the colonel got up, badly wounded in the shoulder ; but 
he kept the field all day. He knew Bill the moment he 
rose, and leant on him till he had somewhat recovered. 
' I shall not forget. Bill,' he said, ' that you have saved 
your colonel's life.' We had a fierce struggle, master, ere 
we beat out the French ; but, broken and half-naked as 
we were, we did beat them out, and the battle became 
general. 

" At first the flare of the artillery, as the batteries blazed 
out in the darkness, dazzled and blinded me ; but I loaded 
and fired incessantly ; and the thicker the bullets went 
whistling past me, the faster I loaded and fired. A spent 
shot, that had struck through a sand-bank, came rolling on 
like a bowl, and, leaping up from a hillock in front, struck 
me on the breast. It was such a blow, master, as a man 
might have given with his fist; but it knocked me down, 
and ere I got up, the company was a few paces in advance. 
The bonnet of the soldier who had taken my place came 
rolling to my feet ere I could join them. But alas ! it was 



BILL WHYTE. 225 

full of blood and brains; and I found that the spent shot 
had come just in time to save my life. Meanwhile, the 
battle raged with redoubled fury on the left, and we in the 
centre had a short respite. And some of us needed it. 
For my own part, I had fired about a hundred rounds; and 
my right shoulder was as blue as your waistcoat. 

" You will wonder, master, how I should notice such a 
thing in the heat of an engagement ; but I remember 
nothing better than that there was a flock of little birds 
shrieking and fluttering over our heads for the greater 
part of the morning. The poor little things seemed as if 
robbed of their very instinct by the incessant discharges 
on every side of them; and, instead of pursuing a direct 
course, which would soon have carried them clear of us,* 
they kept fluttering in helpless terror in one little spot. 
About mid-day, an aide-de-camp went riding by us to the 
right. 

" ' How goes it ? how goes it ? ' asked one of our officers. 

" ' It is just who will,' replied the aide-de-camp, and 
passed by like lightning. Another followed hard after. 

" ' How goes it now ? ' inquired the officer. 

" ' Never better, boy ! ' said the second rider. 'The forty- 
second have cut Bonaparte's invincibles to pieces, and all 
the rest of the enemy are falling back ! ' 

" We came more into action a little after. The enemy 
opened a heavy fire upon us, and seemed advancing to the 
charge. I had felt so fatigued, master, during the previous 
pause, that I could scarcely raise my hand to my head ; 
but, now that we were to be engaged again, all my fatigue 
left me, and I found myself grown fresh as ever. There 
were two field pieces to our left that had done noble exe- 
cution during the day ; and Captain Turpic's company, in- 
cluding Bill and me, were ordered to stand by them in the 



226 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

expected charge. They were wrought mostly by seamen 
from the vessels, — brave, tight fellows who, like Nelson, 
never saw fear ; but they had been so busy that they had 
shot away most of their ammunition ; and, as we came up 
to them, they were about despatching a party to the rear 
for more. 

" ' Right,' said Captain Turpic ; ' I don't care though I 
lend you a hand, and go with you.' 

"'On your peril, sir!' said Bill Whyte. 'What! leave 
your company in the moment of the expected charge ! I 
shall assuredly report you for cowardice and desertion of 
quarters if you do.' 

" ' And I shall have you broke for mutiny,' said the cap- 
tain. ' How can these fellows know how to choose their 
ammunition without some one to direct them ? ' 

" And so off he went to the rear with the sailors ; but, 
though they returned, poor fellows, in ten minutes or so, 
we saw no more of the captain till evening. On came 
the French in their last charge. Ere they could close 
with us the sailors had fired their field-pieces thrice, and 
we could see wide avenues opened among them with each 
discharge. But on they came. Our bayonets crossed and 
clashed with theirs for one half-miuute, and in the next 
they were hurled headlong down the declivity, and we 
were fighting among them pell-mell. There are few troops 
superior to the French, master, in a first attack; but 
they want the bottom of the British ; and, now that we 
had broken them in the moment of their onset, they had 
no chance with us, and we pitched our bayonets into them 
as if they had been so many sheaves in harvest. They lay 
in some places three and four tiers deep ; for our blood 
was up, master ; just as they advanced on us we had heard 
of the death of our general, and they neither asked for 



BILL WHYTE. 227 

quarter nor got it. Ah, the good and gallant Sir Ralph ! 
We all felt as if we had lost a father ; but he died as the 
brave best love to die. The field was all our own ; and 
not a Frenchman remained who was not dead or dying. 
That action, master, fairly broke the neck of their power 
in Egypt. 

" Our colonel was severely wounded, as I have told you, 
early in the morning; but, though often enough urged to 
retire, he had held out all day, and had issued his orders 
with all the coolness and decision for which he was so re- 
markable ; but now that the excitement of the fight was 
over his strength failed him at once, and he had to be ■ 
carried to his tent. He called for Bill to assist in bearing 
him off! I believe it was merely that he might have 
the opportunity of speaking to him. He told him that, 
whether he died or lived, he would take care that he should 
be provided for. He gave Captain Turpic charge, too, that 
he should keep a warm side to Bill. I overheard our 
rnajor say to the captain, as we left the tent, ' Good heav- 
ens! did you ever see two men liker one another than the 
colonel and our new sergeant ? ' But the captain care- 
lessly remarked that the resemblance didn't strike him. 

" We met outside with a comrade. He had had a cousin 
in the forty-second, he s^id, who had been killed that 
morning, and he was anxious to see the body decently 
buried, and wished us to go along with him. And so we 
both went. It is nothing, master, to see men struck doWn 
in warm blood, and when one's own blood is up ; but oh, 
'tis a grievous thing, after one has cooled down to one's 
ordinary mood, to go out among the dead and the dying! 
We passed through what had been the thick of the battle. 
The slain lay in hundreds and thousands, — like the ware 
and tangle on the shore below us, — horribly broken, some 



228 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

of them, by the shot ; and blood and brains lay spattered 
on the sand. But it was a worse sight to see, when some 
poor wretch, who had no chance of living an hour longer, 
opened his eyes as we passed and cried out for water. 
We soon emptied our canteens, and then had to pass on. 
In no place did the dead lie thicker than where the forty- 
second had engaged the invincibles ; and never were there 
finer fellows. They lay piled in heaps, — the best men of 
Scotland over the best men of France, — and their wounds 
and their number and the postures in which they lay 
showed how ti-emendous the struggle had been. I saw one 
• gigantic corpse with the head and neck cloven through 
the steel cap to the very brisket. It was that of a French- 
man; but the hand that had drawn the blow lay cold and 
stiff not a yard away, with the broadsword still firm in its 
grasp. A little further on we found the body we sought. 
It was that of a fair young man. The features were as com- 
posed as if he were asleep ; there was even a smile on the 
lips ; but a cruel cannon-shot had torn the very heart out of 
the breast. Evening was falling. There was a little dog 
whining and whimpering over the body, aware, it would 
seem, that some great ill had befallen its master, but 3'^et 
tugging from time to time at his clothes, that he might rise 
and come away. 

" ' Ochon, ochon ! poor Evan M'Donald ! ' exclaimed our 
comrade ; ' what would Chi'isty Ross or your good old 
mother say to see you lying here ! ' 

" Bill burst out a-crying as if he had been a child ; and 
I couldn't keep dry-eyed neither, master. But grief and 
pity are weaknesses of the bravest natures. We scooped 
out a hole in the sand with our bayonets and our hands, and 
burying the body, came away. 

"The battle of the 21st broke — as I have said — the 



BILL WHYTE. 229 

strength of the French in Egypt ; for though they didn't 
surrender to us until about five months after, they kept 
snug behind tlieir walls, and we saw little more of them. 
Our colonel had gone aboard of the frigate desperately ill 
of his wounds ; so ill that it was several times reported he 
was dead ; and most of our men were suffering sadly from 
sore eyes ashore. But such of us as escaped had little to 
do, and we contrived to while away the time agreeably 
enough. Strange country, Egypt, master. You know our 
people have come from there ; but, trust me, I could find 
none of my cousins among either the Turks or the Ax'abs. 
The Arabs, master, are quite the gipsies of Egypt ; and 
Bill and I — but he paid dearly for them afterwards, poor 
fellow — used frequently to visit such of their straggling 
tribes as came to the neighborhood of our camj). You and 
the like of you, master, are curious to see our people, and 
how we get on ; and no wonder; and we were just as cu- 
rious to see the Arabs. Towards evening tliey used to 
come in fiom the shore or the desert in parties of ten or 
twelve. And wild-looking fellows they were ; tall, but 
not very tall, thin and skinny and dark, and an amaz- 
ing proportion of them blind of an eye, — an effect, I sup- 
pose, of the disease frftm which our comrades were suffering 
so much. In a party of ten or twelve — and theii' parties 
rarely exceeded a dozen — we found that every one of 
them had some special office to perform. One carried a 
fishing-net, like a herring have ; one, perhaps, a basket of 
fish, newly caught ; one a sheaf of wheat ; one a large cop- 
per basin, or rather platter; one a bundle of the dead 
boughs and leaves of the date-tree ; one the implements 
for lighting a fire ; and so on. The first thing they always 
did, after squatting down in a circle, was to strike a light ; 
the next to dig a round pot-like hole in the sand, in 
20 



230 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

which they kindle their fire. When the sand had become 
sufficiently hot, they threw out the embers, and placing 
the fish, just as they had caught them, in the bottom of 
the hole, heaped the hot sand over them, and the fire over 
that. The sheaf of wheat was next untied, and each taking 
a handful, held it over the flame till it was sufficiently 
scorched, and then rubbed out the grain between their 
hands into the copper plate. The fire was then drawn off 
a second time, and the fish dug out ; and, after rubbing off 
the sand and taking out the bowels, they sat down to sup- 
per. And such, master, was the ordinary economy of the 
poorer tribes, that seemed drawn to the camp merely by 
curiosity. Some of the others brought fruit and vegetables 
to our market, and were much encouraged by our officers. 
But a set of greater rascals never breathed. At first several 
of our men got flogged through them. They had a trick of 
raising a hideous outcry in the market-place for every trifle, 
certain, d'ye see, of attracting the notice of some of our 
officers, who Avere all sure to take part with them. The 
market, master, had to be encoui-aged at all events ; and it 
was some time ere the tricks of the rascals were understood 
in the proper quarter. But, to make short, Bill and I went 
out one morning to our walk. We had just heard — and 
heavy news it was to the whole regiment — that our col- 
onel was despaired of, and had no chance of seeing out the 
day. Bill was in miserably low spirits. Captain Turpic 
had insulted him most grossly that morning. So long as 
the colonel had been expected to recover, he had shown 
him some degree of civility ; but he now took every op- 
portunity of picking a quarrel with him. There was no 
comparison in battle, master, between Bill and the captain, 
for the captain, I suspect, was little better than a coward ; 
but then there was just as little on parade the other way ; 



BILL WHYTE. 231 

for Bill, yon know, couldn't know a gi*eat dea,l, and the cap- 
tain was a perfect martinet. He had called him vagrant 
and beggar, master, for omitting some little piece of duty. 
Now he couldn't help having been with us, you know; and 
as for beggary, he had never begged in his life. Well, we 
had walked out towards the market, as I say. 

" ' It's all nonsense. Jack,' says he, ' to be so dull on the 
matter ; I'll e'en treat you to some fruit. I have a Sicilian 
dollar here. See that lazy fellow with the spade lying in 
front, and the burning mountain smoking behind him. We 
must see if he can't dig out for us a few prans' worth of 
dates.' 

" Well, master, up he went to a tall, thin, rascally-look- 
ing Arab, with one eye, and bought as much fruit from him 
as might come to one tenth of thie dollar which he gave him, 
and then held out his hand for the change. But there was 
no change forthcoming. Bill wasn't a man to be done out 
of his cash in that silly way, and so he stormed at the ras- 
cal ; but he, in turn, stormed as furiously, in his own lingo, 
at him, till at last Bill's blood got up, and, seizing him by 
the breast, he twisted him over his knee as one might a 
boy of ten years or so. The fellow raised a hideous outcry, 
as if Bill were robbing and murdering him. Two officers, 
who chanced to be in the market at the time, came running 
up at the noise. One of them was the scoundrel Turpic ; 
and Bill was laid hold of, and sent off under guard to the 
camp. Poor fellow, he got scant justice there. Turpic 
had procured a man-of-war's-man, who swore, as well 
he might, indeed, that Bill was the smuggler who had 
swamped the Kirkcudbright custom-house boat. There 
was another brought forward who swore that both of us 
were gipsies, and told a blasted rigmarole story, without 
one word of truth in it, about the stealing of a silver spoon. 



232 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

The Arnb had his story, too, in his own lingo ; and they re- 
ceived every word ; for my evidence went for nothing. I 
was of a race who never spoke the ti'uth, they said, as if I 
weren't as good as a Mohammedan Arab. To crown all, in 
came Turpic's story about what he called Bill's mutinous 
spirit in the action of the 21st. You may guess the rest, 
master. The poor fellow was broke that morning, and 
told that, were it not in consideration of his bravery, he 
would have got a flogging into the bargain. 

" I spent the evening of that day with Bill outside the 
camp, and Ave ate the dates together that in the moraing 
had cost him so dear. The report had gone abroad, — 
luckily a folse one, — that our colonel was dead ; and that 
put an end to all hope with the poor fellow of having his 
case righted. We spoke together for I am sure two hours ; 
spoke of Bill's early recollections, and of the hardship of 
his fate all along. And it Avas now worse with him, he 
said, than it had ever been before. He spoke of the strange, 
unaccountable hostility of Turpic; and I saw his brow 
grow dark, and the veins of his neck swell almost to burst- 
ing. He trusted they might yet meet, he said, where there 
would be none to note who was the ofiicer and who the 
private soldier. I did my best, master, to console the poor 
fellow, and we parted. The first thing I saw, as I opened 
the tent-door next morning, was Captain Turpic, brought 
into the camp by the soldier whose cousin Bill and I had 
assisted to bury. The captain was leaning on his shoulder, 
somewhat less than half alive, as it seemed, with four of 
his front teeth struck out, and a stream of blood all along 
his vest and small clothes. He had been met with by Bill, 
who had attacked him, he said, and, after breaking his 
sword, would h-ave killed him, had not the soldier come 
up and interfered. But that, master, was the captain's 



BILL WHYTE. 233 

Story. The soldier told me afterwards that he saw the 
captain draw his sword ere Bill lifted hand at all ; and 
that, when the poor fellow did strike, he gave him only one 
knock-down blow on the mouth, that laid him insensible 
at his feet; and that, when down, though he might have 
killed him twenty times over, he didn't so much as crook 
a linger on him. Nay, more, Bill offered to deliver him- 
self up to the soldier, had not the latter assured him that 
he would to a certainty be shot, and advised him to make 
off. There was a party despatched in quest of him, master, 
the moment Turpic had told his story ; but he was lucky 
enough, poor fellow, to elude them ; and they returned in 
the evening just as they had gone out. And I saw no 
more of Bill in Egypt, master. 



CHAPTER II. 

THE DENOUEMENT. 

" After all our fears and regrets, master, our colonel 
recovered, and one morning about four months after the 
action, came ashore to see us. We were sadly pestered 
with flies, master. They buzzed all night by millions 
round our noses, and many a plan did we think of to get 
rid of them ; but after destroying hosts on hosts, they 
still seemed as thick as before. I had fallen on a new 
scheme this morning. I placed some sugar on a board, 
and surrounded it with gunpowder ; and when the flies 
had settled by thousands on the sugar, I fired the gun- 
powder by means of a train, and the whole fell dead on 
the floor of the tent. I had just got a capital shot, when 
up came the colonel and sat down beside me. 
20* 



234 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

.'"I wish to know,' he said, 'all you can tell me about 
Bill Whyte. You were his chief friend and companion, J 
have heard, and are acquainted with his early history. 
Can you tell me aught of his parentage? ' 

'"Nothing of that, Colonel,' I said; 'and yet I have 
known Bill almost ever since he knew himself.' 

" And so, master, I told him all that I knew : how Bill 
had been first taken to us by my mother ; of the purse of 
gold she had brought with her, which had kept us all so 
merry ; and of the noble spirit he had shown among us- 
when he grew up. I told him, too, of some of Bill's early 
recollections ; of the scarlet dress trimmed with silver, 
which had been brought to his mind by the sergeant's coat 
the first day he wore it ; of the gentleman and lady, too, 
whom he remembered to have lived with ; and of the sup- 
posed resemblance he had found between the former and 
the colonel. The colonel, as I went on, was strangely 
agitated, master. He held an open letter in his hand, and 
seemed every now and then to be comparing particulars; 
and when I mentioned Bill's supposed recognition of him, 
he actually started from off his seat. 

" ' Good heavens !' he exclaimed, ' why was I not brought 
acquainted with this before ? ' 

"I explained the why, master, and told him all about 
Captain Turpic ; and he left me with, you may be sure, 
no very favorable opinion of the captain. But I must now 
tell you, master, a part of my story, which I had but from 
hearsay. 

" The colonel had been getting over the worse effects of 
his w^ound, M'hen he received a letter from a friend in Eng- 
land informing him that his brother-in-law, the father of 
Captain Turpic, had died suddenly, and that his sister, 
who to all appearance was fast following, had been making 



BILL WHYTE. 235 

strnnge discoveries regarding an only son of the colonel's, 
who was supposed to have been drowned about seventeen 
years before. The colonel had lost both his lady and child 
by a friglitfnl accident. His estate lay near Olney, on the 
banks of the Ouse ; and the lady one day, during the ab- 
sence of the colonel, who was in London, was taking an 
airing m the carriage with her son, a boy of three years 
or so, when the horses took fright, and, throwing the 
coachman, who was killed on the spot, rushed into the 
river. The Ouse is a deep, sluggish stream, dark and 
muddy in some of the more dangei'ous pools, and mantled 
over with weeds. It was into one of these the carriage 
was overturned. Assistance came late, and the unfortunate 
lady was brought out a corpse ; but the body of the child 
was nowhere to be found. It now came out, however, 
from the letter, that the child had been picked up unhurt 
by the colonel's brother-in-law, who, after concealing it for 
nearly a week during the very frenzy of the colonel's dis- 
tress, had then given it to a gipsy. The rascal's only 
motive — he was a lawyer, master — was, that his own son, 
the captain, who was then a boy of twelve years or so, and 
not Avholly ignorant of the circumstance, might succeed to 
the colonel's estate. The writer of the letter added that, 
on coming to the knowledge of this singular confession, he 
had made instant search after the gipsy to whom the child 
had been given, and had been fortunate enough to find 
her, after tracing her over half the kingdom, in a cave near 
Fortrose, in the north of Scotland. She had confessed 
all ; stating, however, that the lad, who had borne among 
the tribe the name of Bill Whyte, and had turned out a 
fine fellow, had been outlawed for some smuggling feat, 
about eighteen months before, and had enlisted with a 
young man, her son, into a regiment bound for Egypt. 



236 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

You see, master, there couldn't be a shadow of doubt that 
my comrade Bill Whyte was just Henry Westhope, the 
colonel's son and heir. But the grand matter was where 
to find him. Search as we might, all search was in vain. 
We could trace him no further than outside the camp to 
where he had met with Captain Turpic. I should tell you, 
by the way, that the captain was now sent to Coventry by 
every one, and that not an ofiicer in the regiment would 
return his salute. 

" Well, master, the months passed, and at length the 
French surrendered ; and, having no more to do in Egypt, 
we all re-embarked, and sailed for England. The short 
peace had been ratified before our arrival ; and I, who had 
become heartily tired of the life of a soldier now that I had 
no one to associate with, was fortunate enough to obtain 
my discharge. The colonel retired from the service at the 
same time. He was as kind to me as if he had been my 
father, and ofiered to make me his forester if I would but 
come and live beside him. But I was too fond of a wan- 
dering life for that. He was corresponding, he told me, 
with every British consul within fifteen hundred miles of 
the Nile ; but he had heard nothing of Bill, master. Well, 
after seeing the colonel's estate, I parted from him, and 
came north to find out my people, which I soon did; and, 
for a year or so, I lived with them just as I have been 
doing since. I was led in the course of my wanderings to 
Leith, and was standing one morning on the pier among a 
crowd of people, who had gathered round to see a fin'e 
vessel from the Levant that was coming in at the time, 
when my eye caught among the sailors a man exceedingly 
like Bill. He was as tall, and even more robust, and he 
wrought with all Bill's activity ; but for some time I could 
not catch a glimpse of his face. At length, however, he 



BILL WHYTE. 237 

turned round, and there, sure enougli, v>'ris Bill himself, I 
was afraid to hail him, master, not knowing who among 
the crowd might also know him, and know him also as a 
deserter or an outlaw ; but you may be sure I wasn't long 
in leaping aboai'd and making up to him. And we were 
soon as happy, master, in one of the cellars of the Coal 
Hill, as we had been all our lives before, 

" Bill told me his history since our parting. He had left 
the captain lying at his feet, and struck across the sand in 
the direction of the Nile, one of the mouths of which he 
reached next day. He there found some Greek sailors, 
who were employed in watering ; and, assisting them in 
their work, he was bi'ought aboard their vessel, and engaged 
as a seaman by the master, who had lost some of his crew 
by the plague. As you may think, master, he soon became 
a prime sailor, and continued with the Greeks, trading 
among the islands of the Archipelago for about eighteen 
months, when, growing tired of the seiwice, and meeting 
with an English vessel, he had taken a passage home, I 
told him how much ado we had all had about him after he 
had left lis, and how we were to cull him Bill Whyte no 
longer. And so, in shoi't, master, we set out together for 
Colonel Westhope's. 

"In our journey we met with some of our people on a 
wild moor of Cumberland, and were invited to pass the 
night with them. They were of the Curlit fomily ; but 
you will hardly know them by that. Two of them had 
hiten with us when Bill swamped the custom-house boat. 
They were fierce, desperate fellows, and not much to be 
trusted by their friends even ; and I was afraid that 
they might have somehow come to guess that Bill had 
brought some clinkers home with him. And so, master, I 
would fliin have dissuaded him from making any stay with 



238 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

them in the night-time ; for I did not know, you see, in 
what case we might find our weasands in the morning. But 
Bill had no fears of any kind, and was, beside, desirous to 
spend one last night with the gipsies ; and so he staid. 
The party had taken up their quarters in a waste house on 
the moor, with no other human dwelling within four miles 
of it. There was a low, stunted wood on the one side, 
master, and a rough, sweeping stream on the other. The 
night, too, was wild and boisterous ; and, what between 
suspicion and discomfort, I felt well-nigh as drearily as I 
did when lying among the dead men in Egypt. We were 
nobly treated, however, and the whiskey flowed like water. 
But we drank no more than was good for us. Indeed, Bill 
was never a great drinker ; and I kept on my guard, and 
refused the liquor on the plea of a bad head. I should 
have told you that there were but three of the Curlits — 
all of them raw-boned fellows, however, and all of them of 
such stamp that the three have since been hung. I saw 
they were sounding Bill ; but he seemed aware of them. 

" ' Aye, aye,' says he, * I have made something by my voy- 
aging, lads, though, mayhap, not a great deal. What think 
you of that there now, for instance ? ' — drawing, as he 
spoke, a silver-mounted pistol out of each pocket. ' These 
are pretty pops, and as good as they are pretty. The worst 
of them sends a bullet through an inch-board at twenty 
yards.' 

" ' Are they loaded. Bill ? ' asked Tom Curlit. 

" ' To be sure,' said Bill, returning them again each to 
its own pouch, ' What is the use of an empty pistol ? ' 

" ' Ah,' replied Tom, ' I smell a rat, Bill. You have given 
over making war on the king's account, and have taken 
the road to make war on your own. Bold enough, to be 
sure.' 



BILL WHYTE. 239 

" From the moment they saw the pistols, the brothers 
seemed to have changed their plan regarding us ; for some 
plan I am certain they had. They would now fain have 
taken us into partnership with them ; but their trade was 
a woundy bad one, master, with a world more of risk than 
profit. 

« ' Why, lads,' said Tom Curlit to Bill and me, < hadn't 
you better stay with us altogether? The road won't do 
in these days at all. No, no ; the law is a vast deal over- 
strong for that, and you will be tucked up like dogs for 
your very first affair. But if you stay with us, you will 
get on in a much quieter way on this wild moor here. 
Plenty of game. Bill ; and sometimes, M'hen the nights are 
long, we contrive to take a purse with as little trouble as 
may be. We had an old peddler only three weeks ago that 
brought us sixty good pounds. By the way, brothers, we 
must throw a few more sods over him, for I nosed him this 
morning as I went by. And, lads, we have something in 
hand just now, that, with, to be sure, a little more risk, will 
pay better still. Two hundred yellow boys in hand, and 
five hundred more when our work is done. Better that, 
Bill, than standing to be shot at for a shilling per day.' 

"'Two hundred in hand and five hundred more when 
you have done your work ! ' exclaimed Bill. 'Why, that 
is sure enough princely pay, unless the work be very bad 
indeed. But come, tell us what you propose. You can't 
expect us to make it a leap-in -the-dark matter.' 

" ' The work is certainly a little dangerous,' said Tom, 
'and we of ourselves are rather few ; but if you both join 
with us there would be a vast deal less of danger indeed. 
The matter is just this. A young fellow, like ourselves, 
has a rich old uncle, who has made his will in his favor ; 
but then he threatens to make another will that won't be 



240 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

SO favorable to him by half; and you see the drawing across 
of a knife — so — would keep the first one in force. And 
that is all we have to do before pocketing the blunt. But 
then the old fellow is as brave as a lion, and there are two 
servants with him, worn-out soldiers like himself, that 
would, I am sure, be I'ough customers. With your help, 
however, we shall get on primely. The old boy's house 
stands much alone, and we shall be five to three.' 

" ' Well, well,' said Bill ; ' we shall give your proposal a 
night's thought, and tell you what we think of it in the 
morning. But remember, no tricks, Tom ! If we engage 
in the work, we must go share and share alike in the 
booty.' 

" ' To be sure,' said Tom ; and so the conversation 
closed. 

" About eight o'clock or so, master, I stepped out to the 
door. The night was dark and boisterous as ever, and 
there had come on a heavy rain. But I could see that, 
dark and boisterous as it was, some one was approaching 
the house with a dark lantern. I lost no time in tellins: 
the Curlits so, 

" ' It must be the captain,' said they, ' though it seems 
strange that he should come here to-night. You must 
away, Jack and Bill, to the loft, for it mayn't do for the 
cajjtain to find you here ; but you can lend us a hand after- 
wards, should need require it.' 

" There was no time for asking explanations, master, 
and so up we climbed to the loft, and had got snugly con- 
cealed among some old hay, when in came the captain. 
But what captain, think you ? Why, just our old acquaint- 
ance Captain Turpic ! 

" ' Lads,' he said to the Curlits, * make yourselves ready; 
get your pistols. Our old scheme is blown, for the colonel 



BILL WHYTB. 241 

has left his house at Oiney on a journey to Scotland ; but 
he passes here to-night, and you must find means to stop 
him, — now or never ! ' 

" ' What force and what arms has he with him, captain?' 
asked Tom. 

" ' The coachman, his body servant, and himself,' said the 
captain ; ' but only the servant and himself are armed. 
The stream outside is high to-night; you must take them 
just as they are ci'ossing it, and thinking of only the water; 
and whatever else you may mind, make sure of the colonel.' 

"'Sure as I live,' said Bill to me, in a low whisper, ''tis 
a plan to murder Colonel Westhope ! And, good heav- 
ens ! ' he continued, pointing through an opening in the 
gable, ' yonder is his carriage not a mile away. You may 
see the lantern, like two fiery eyes, coming sweeping along 
the moor. We have no time to lose. Let us slide down 
through the opening and meet with it.' 

"As soon done as said, master. We slid down along the 
turf gable; crossed the stream, which had risen high on its 
banks, by a plank bridge for foot-passengers ; and then 
dashed along the broken road in the direction of the car- 
riage. We came up to it as it was slowly crossing an open 
drain. 

" ' Colonel Westhope ! ' I cried, ' Colonel Westhope ! — 
stop ! — stop ! — turn back ! You are waylaid by a party 
of ruffians, who will murder you if you go on.' 

The door opened, and the colonel stepped out, with, his 
sword under his left arm, and a cocked pistol in his hand. 

" ' Is not that Jack Whyte? ' he asked, 

*' 'The same, noble colonel,' I said ; ' and here is Henry, 
your son,' 

" It was no place or time, master, for long explanations ; 
there was one hearty congratulation, and one hurried em- 
21 



242 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

brace ; and the colonel, after learning from Bill the num- 
ber of the assailants and the plan of the attack, ordered the 
carriage to drive on slowly before, and followed, with us 
and his servant, on foot, behind. 

" ' The rascals,' he said, ' will be so dazzled with the flare 
of the lanterns in front, that we will escape notice till they 
have fired, and then we shall have them for the picking 
down.' 

" And so it was, master. Just as the can-iage was enter- 
ing the stream, the coachman was pulled down by Tom 
Curlit; at the same instant, three bullets went whizzing 
through the glasses, and two fellows came leaping out from 
behind some furze to the carriage door. A thii*d, whom I 
knew to be the captain, lagged behind. I marked him, 
however ; and when the colonel and Bill were disposing of 
the other two, — and they took them so sadly by surprise, 
master, that they had but little difficulty in throwing them 
down and binding them, — I was lucky enough to send a 
piece of lead through the captain. He ran about twenty 
yards, and then dropped down stone dead. Tom escaped 
us ; but he cut a throat some months after, and suffered for 
it at Carlisle. And his two brothers, after making a clean 
breast, and confessing all, were transported for life. But 
they found means to return in a few yeare after, and were 
both hung on the gallows on which Tom had suffered 
before them. 

" I have not a great deal more to tell yon, master. The 
colonel has been dead for the last twelve years, and his son 
has succeeded him in his estate. There is not a completer 
gentleman in England than Henry Westhope, master, nor 
a finer fellow. I call on him every time I go round, and 
never miss a hearty welcome ; though, by the by, I am 
quite as sure of a hearty scold. He still keeps a snug little 



BILL WHYTE. 243 

house empty for me, and offers to settle on me fifty pounds 
a year, whenever I choose to give up my wandering life 
and go and live with him. But what's bred in the bone 
won't come out of the flesh, master, and I have not yet 
closed with his offer. And really, to tell you my mind, I 
don't think it quite respectable. Here I am, at present, a 
free, independent tinker, — no man more respectable than a 
tinker, master, all allow that, — whereas, if I go and live 
with Bill, on an unwrought-for fifty pounds a year, I will 
be hardly better than a mere master-tailor or shoemaker. 
No, no, that would never do ! Nothing like respectability, 
master, let a man fare as hard as he may." 

I thanked the gipsy for his story, and told him I thought 
it almost worth while putting into priiit. He thanked me, 
in turn, for liking it so well, and assured me I was quite at 
liberty to put it in print as soon as I chose. And so I took 
him at his word. 

" But yonder," said he, " is the moon rising, red and huge, 
over the three tops of Belrinnes, and throwing, as it bright- 
ens, its long strip of fire across the frith. Take care of 
your footing just as you reach the top of the crag ; there 
is an awkward gap there, on the rock edge, that reminds 
me of an Indian trap ; but as for the rest of the path, you 
will find it quite as safe as by day. Good-bye." 

I left him, and made the best of my way home, where, 
while the facts were fresh in my mind, I committed to paper 
the gipsy's story. 



VII. 
THE YOUNG SURGEON. 

CHAPTER I. 

It's no' in books, it's no' iujear, 
To m^ke us truly blest. 
If Happiness has not lier seat 
And centre in the breast. 

Burns. 

Theke is a little runnel in the neighborhood of the 

town of , which, rising amid the swamps of a mossy 

hollow, pursues its downward way along the bottom of a 
deep-wooded ravine ; and so winding and circuitous is the 
course which, in the lapse of ages, it has worn for itself 
through a subsoil of stiff diluvial clay, that, ere a late pro- 
prietor lined its sides with garden-flowers and pathways 
covered with gravel, and then willed that it should be 
named the " Ladies' Walk," it was known to the towns- 
people as the Crook Burn. It is a place of abrupt angles 
and sudden turns. We see that when the little stream 
first leaped from its urn it must have had many a difficulty 
to encounter, and many an obstacle to overcome; but they 
have all been long since surmounted ; and when in the heat 
of summer we hear it tinkling through the pebbles, with a 
sound so feeble that it hardly provokes the chirp of the 



THE YOUNG SURGEON. 245 

robin, and see that, even where it spreads widest to the 
light, it presents a too narrow space for the gambols of the 
water-spider, we marvel how it could ever have scooped 
out for itself so capacious a bed. But what will not cen- 
turies of perseverance accomplish ! The tallest trees that 
rise beside it — and there are few taller in the country — 
scarcely overtop its banks ; and, as it approaches the parish 
burying-ground, — for it passes close beside the wall, — we 
may look down from the fields above on the topmost 
branches, and see the magpie sitting on her nest. This 
little stream, so attenuated and thread-like during the 
droughts of July and August, and which after every heavier 
shower comes brawling from its recesses, reddened by a 
few handfuls of clay, has swept to the sea, in the long 
unreckoned succession of ages, a mass mighty enough to 
have furnished the materials of an Egyptian jiyraraid. 

In even the loneliest windings of the Crook Burn we find 
something to remind us of the world. Every smoother 
trunk bears its inscription of dates and initials; and to one 
who has resided in the neighboring town, and mingled 
freely with the inhabitants, there is scarcely a little cluster 
of characters he meets with that has not its story. Human 
nature is a wonderful thing, and interesting in even its 
humblest appearances to the creatures who j^artake of it; 
nor can the point from which one observes it be too near, 
or the observations themselves too minute. It is perhaps 
best, however, when we have collected our materials, to 
combine and arrange them at some little distance. We 
are always something more than mere observers, — we pos- 
sess that which we contemplate, with all its predilections 
and all its antipathies, — and there is dimness or distortion 
in the mirror on which we catch the features of our neigh- 
bors, if the breath of passion has passed over it. Do we 
21* 



246 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

not see that the little stream beside us gives us a faithful 
picture of what surrounds it only when it is at rest ? And 
it is well, if we desire to tliink correctly, and in the spirit of 
charity, of our brother men, that we should be at rest too. 
For our own part, we love best to think of the dead when 
their graves are at our feet, and our feelings are chastened 
by the conviction that we ourselves are very soon to take 
our place beside thein. We love to think of the living, not 
amid the hum and bustle of the world, when the thoughts 
are hurried, and perhaps the sterner passions aroused, but 
in the solitude of some green retreat, by the side of some 
unfrequented stream, when drinking largely of the beauty 
and splendor of external things, and lieeling that we our- 
selves are man, — in nature and destiny the being whom we 
contemplate. There is nought of contempt in the smile to 
which we are pi-ovoked by the eccentricities of a creature 
so strange and wilful, nor of bitterness in the sorrow with 
which we i-egard his crimes. 

In passing one of the trees, a smooth-rinded ash, we see a 
few characters engraved on it, which at the first glance we 
deem Hebrew, but which we fincl, on examination, to be- 
long to some less known alphabet of the East. There hangs 
a story of these obscure characters, which, though little 
checkered by incident, has something very interesting in it. 
It is of no distant date ; — the characters, in all their mi- 
nuter strokes, are still unfilled ; but the hand that traced 
them, and the eye that softened in expression as it marked 
the progress of the work, — for they record the name of 
a lady-love, — are now mingled with the clods of the valley. 

Early in an autumn of the present century, — and we 
need not be more explicit, for names and dates are no way 
essential to what we have to relate, — a small tender en- 
tered the bay of , and cast anchor in the roadstead, 



THE YOUNG SURGEON. 247 

wncre she remained for nearly two months. Our country 
had been at peace with all the world for years before, and 
the arts which accompany peace had extended their soft- 
ening influence to our seamen, a class of men not much 
marked in the past, as a body at least, — though it had pro- 
duced a Dampier and a Falconer, — for aught approaching 
to literary acquirement, or the refinement of their manners. 
And the officers of this little vessel were no unfavorable 
specimens of the more cultivated class. They were in gen- 
eral well read ; and possessing, with the attainments, the 
manners of gentlemen, were soon on terms of intimacy 
with some of the more intelligent inhabitants of the place. 
There was one among them, however, whose society was 
little courted. He was a young and strikingly handsome 
man, with bright, speaking eyes, and a fine development of 
forehead ; but the higher parts of his nature seemed more 
than balanced by the lower ; and, though proud-s})irited and 
honorable, he was evidently sinking into a hopeless degra- 
dation, — the slave of habits which strengthen with indulg- 
ence, and which already seemed too strong to be overcome. 
He accompanied, on two or three occasions, some of his 
brother officers when engaged in calling on their several 
acquaintances of the place. The grosser traits of his char- 
acter had become pretty generally known, and report had, 
as usual, rather aggravated than lessened them. There 
was something whispered of a low intrigue in which be was 
said to have been engaged ; something, too, of those dis- 
reputable habits of solitary indulgence in which the stimu- 
lating agent is recklessly and despairingly employed to 
satisfy for the moment the ever-recurring cravings of a 
depraved appetite, and which are regarded as precluding 
the hope of reform ; and he seemed as if shunned by every 
one. His high spirit, however, though it felt neglect, could 



248 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

• 
support him under it. He was a keen satirist, too, like 

almost all men of talent, who, thinking and feeling more 
correctly than they live, wreak on their neighbors the un- 
happiness of their own remorse ; and he could thus neu- 
tralize the bitterness of his feelings by the bitterness of his 
thoughts. But with every such help one cannot wholly 
dispense with the respect of others, unless one be possessed 
of one's own; and when a lady. of the place, who on one 
occasion saw and pitied his chagrin, invited him to pass 
an evening at her house with a small party of friends, the 
feeling awakened by her kindness served to convince him 
that he was less indifferent than he could have wished to 
the coldness of the others. His spirits rose in the company 
to which he was thus introduced ; he exerted his powers of 
pleasing, — and they were of no ordinary description, for, 
^ to an imagination of much liveliness, he added warm feel- 
ings and an exquisite taste, — and, on rising to take his 
leave for the evening, his hostess, whose interest in him was- 
heightened by pity, and whose years and character secured 
her from the fear of having her motives misconstrued, 
kindly urged him to repeat his visit every time he thought 
he could not better employ himself, or when he found it 
irksome or dangerous to be alone. And her invitation was 
accepted in the spirit in which it was given. 

She soon became acquainted with bis story. He had 
lost his mother when very young, and had been bred up 
under the care of an elder brother, with an eye to the 
church ; but his inclinations interfering as he grew up, the 
destination was altered, and he applied himself to the 
study of medicine. He had passed through college in a 
way creditable to his talents, and on quitting it he seemed 
admirably fitted to rise in the profession which he had 
made choice of; for, to vei-y superior acquirements, and 



THE YOUNG SURGEON. 249 

much readiness of resource, he added a pleasing address 
and a soft, winning manner. There seemed, however, to 
be something of a neutralizing quality in the moral con- 
stitution of the man. He was honest, and high-spirited, 
and ready to oblige ; but there was a morbid restlessness 
in his feelings which, languishing after excitement as its 
proper element, rendered him too indifferent to those oi-- 
dinary concerns of life which seem so tame and little when 
regarded singly, but which prove of such mighty impor- 
tance in the aggregate. There was, besides, an unhappy 
egotism in the character, which led him to regard himself 
as extraordinary^ the circumstances in which he was placed 
as common^ and therefore unsuited, and which, instead of 
exciting him to the course of legitimate exertion through 
which men of talent rise to their proper sphere, spent itself 
in making out ingenious cases of sorrow and apologies for 
unhappiness, from very ordinary events, and a condition 
of life in which thousands attain to contentment. One 
might almost suppose that that sense of the ludicrous — 
bestowed on the species undoubtedly for wise ends — 
which finds its proper vocation in detecting and exposing 
incongruities of this kind, could not be better employed 
than in setting such a man right. It would have failed in 
its object, however ; and cei-tain it is, that geniuses of the 
very first order, who could have rendered us back our rid- 
icule with fearful interest, have been of nearly the same 
disposition with the poor surgeon, — creatures made up of 
idiosyncrasies and eccentricities. A similar turn was at- 
tended with unhappiness in Byron and Rousseau ; and 
such is the power of true genius over the public mind, 
however fantastic its vagaries, that they had all Europe to 
sympathize with them. 

The poor surgeon experienced no such sympathy. The 



250 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

circumstances, too, in which he had been reai'ed were well- 
nigh as unfavorable as his disposition ; nor had they at all 
imj)roved as he grew up. The love of a mother might have 
nursed the feelings of so delicate a mind, and fitted them 
for the world ; for, as in dispositions of a romantic cast 
the affections are apt to wander after the unreal and the 
illusive, and to become chilled and crippled in the pursuit, 
it is well that they should be prepared for resting on real 
objects by the thousand kindlinesses of this first felt and 
tenderest relation. But his mother he had lost in infancy. 
His brother, though substantially kind, had a way of saying 
bitter things, — not unprovoked, perhaps, — which, once 
heard, were never forgotten. He was now living among 
strangers, — who, to a man of his temper, were likely to 
remain such, — without friends or patron, and apparently 
out of the reach of promotion. And, to sum up the whole, 
he was a tender and elegant poet, for he had become skil- 
ful in the uncommunicable art, and had learned to give 
body to his emotions and color to his thoughts ; but, 
though exquisitely alive to the sweets of fame, he was of 
all poets the most obscure and nameless. With a disposi- 
tion so unfortunate in its peculiarities, with a groundwork, 
too, of strong animal passion in the character, he strove to 
escape from himself by means revolting to his better na- 
ture, and which ultimately more than doubled his unhap- 
piness. To a too active dislike of his brother men, — for 
he was infinitely more successful in finding enemies than 
friends, — there was now added a sickening disgust of him- 
self Habit produced its usual effects ; and he found he 
had raised to his assistance a demon which he could not 
lay, and which threatened to destroy him. 

We insert a finished little poem, the composition of tliis 
stage, in which he portrays his feelings, and which may 



THE YOUNG SURGEON. 251 

serve to show, were any such proof needed, that gross 
habits and an elegant taste are by no means incompatible. 

Fain would I seek in scenes more gay 

That pleasure others find. 
And strive to drown in revelry 

The anguish of the mind. 

But still, where'er I go, I bear 

The marks of inward pain ; 
The lines of misery and care 

Are written in my brain. 

I cannot raise the cheerful song, 

Nor frolic with the free, 
Nor mingle in the dance among 

The sons of mirth and glee. 

For there's a spell upon my soul, 

A secret anguish there, 
A grief which I cannot control, 

A deep, corroding care. 

And do not ask me why I sigh, — 

Draw not the veil aside ; 
Though dark, 'tis fairer to the eye 

Than that which it would hide. 

• The downward progress of the young surgeon, ere it re-, 
ceived the ultimate check which restored him to more than 
the vantage-ground of his earliest years, was partially ar- 
rested by a circumstance more efficient in suspending the 
influence of the grosser habits than any other which occurs 
in the ordinary course of things. When in some of the 
southern ports of England, he had formed an attachment 
for a young and beautiful lady, of great delicacy of senti- 
ment and a highly cultivated mind, and succeeded in in- 
spiring her with a corresponding regard. Who is not ac- 
quainted with Dry den's story of Cymon ? It may be a 



252 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

harder matter, indeed, to unfix deeply-rooted habits than 
merely to polish the manners ; but we are the creatures of 
motive ; and there is no appetite, however unconquerable 
it may appear when opposed by only the dictates of judg- 
ment or conscience, but what yields to the influence of a 
passion more powerful than itself. To the young surgeon 
his attachment for this lady proved for a time the guiding 
motive and the governing passion ; the effect was a tem- 
porary reform, a kind of minor conversion, which, though 
the work of no undying spirit, seemed to renovate his 
whole moral nature ; and had he resided in the neighbor- 
hood of his lady-love, it is probable that, during *at least the 
term of his courtship, all his grosser appetites would have 
slept. But absence, though it rather strengthens than 
diminishes a true attachment, frequently lessons its moral 
efficiency, by forming, as it were, a craving void in the 
heart which old habits are usually called upon to fill. 
The philospher of Rosseau solaced himself with his bottle 
when absent from his mistress; the poor fellow whose story 
I attempt to relate returned in a similar way to most of 
his earlier indulgences when separated from his. And yet 
never was there lover more thoroughly attached, or whose 
afiection had less of earth in it. His love seemed rather 
an abstraction of the poet than based on the passions of 
the man ; and, colored by the taste and delicacy of his intel- 
lectual nature, it might be conceived of as a sort of religion 
exquisitely fervent in its worship, and abounding in gor- 
geous visions, the phantoms of a vigorous fancy, conjured 
up by a too credulous hope. Nor did it lack its dedicatory 
inscriptions or its hymns. Almost the only cheerful verses 
he ever wrote were his love ones ; the others were filled 
■with a kind of metaphysical gi*ief — shall we call it? — 
common to our literature since the days of Byron and 



THE YOUNG SURGEON. 



Shelley, but which seems to have been unknown to either 
Burns or Shakspeare. The surgeon, however, was no mere 
imitator — no mere copyist of unfelt and impossible sor- 
row. His pieces, like all the productions of the school to 
which they belonged, included nearly the usual amount of 
false thought and sentiment ; but the feeling which had dic- 
tated them was not a false one. Had he lived better, he 
would have written more cheerfully. It is with the mind 
often as with the body. It is not always in the main seat 
of disease that the symptoms proper to the disease are ex- 
hibited ; nor does it need any very extensive acquaintance 
with our nature to know that real remorse often forms the 
groundwork of an apparently fictitious sorrow. 

Another poem, of somewhat the same stamp as the for- 
mer, we may insert here. It is in the handwriting of the 
young surgeon, among a collection of his pieces, but is 
marked " Anonymous." We have never met with it else- 
where ; and as it bears upon it the impress of this singu- 
lar young man's mind, and is powerfully expressive of the 
gloom in which he loved to enshroud himself, and of the 
deep bitterness which is the only legitimate fruit of a life 
of sinful pleasure, we may shrewdly guess that it can be 
the production of no one else. It is entitled 

THE MOURNEE. 

I do not sigh 
That I catch not the glance of woman's eye: 
I am weaiy of woman. I know too well 
How the pleasant smiles of the love-merchant sell 
To waste one serious thought on her, 
Though I've been, like others, a worshipper. 
I do not sigh for the silken creature; 
The tinge of good in her milky blood 
Marks not her worth, but her feebler nature. 
22 



254 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

I do not pine 
That the treasures of India are not mine : 
I have feasted on all that gold could buy, 
I have drained the fount men call pleasure dry. 
And I feel the after scorch of pain 
On a lip that would not drink again. 
Oh! wealth on me were only wasted; 
I am far above the usurer's love. 
And all other love on earth I've tasted. 

I do not weep 
That apart from the noble my walk I keep ; 
That the name I bear shall never be set 
'Mid the gems of Fame's sparkling coronet; 
That I shall slink, with the meanest clay, 
To a hasty grave as mean as they. 
Oh! the choice of a sepulchre does not grieve me: 
I have that within a name might win 
And a tomb, if such things could deceive me. 

I do not groan 
That I life's poison-plant have known ; 
That in my spirit's drunkenness 
I ate of its fruit of bitterness, 
Nor knew, until it was too late. 
The ills that on such banquet wait. 
'Tis not for this I cherish sadness : 
I've taught my heart to endure the smart 
Produced by my youth's madness. 

But I do sigh. 
And deeply, darkly pine, weep, groan, — and why ? 
Because with unclouded eye I see 
Each turn in human destiny, 
The knowledge of which will not depart. 
But lingers and rankles in my heart; 
Because it is my chance to know 
That good and ill, that weal and woe. 
Are words that Nothing mean below; 
Because all earth can't buy a morrow, 
Or draw from breath, or the vital breath, 
Aught but uncertainty and sorrow. 



THE YOUNG SURGEON. 255 

This strange poem he read to his eldei-ly friend, with the 
evident purpose of eliciting some criticism. While admit- 
ting its power, she protested against its false philosophy, — 
the result of a distorted vision, in its turn the result of 
a perverted life. By way of attempting to strike out a 
healthier vein of sentiment, she begged him to furnish her 
with an answer. With this request he complied ; but the 
production, although with glimpses of true poetry, and with 
the same power over rhythm, has, as might be expected, 
the air of something made' to order. It is as follows : — 

ANSWEE TO THE MOUKNER. 

I daily sigh 
That I meet not the glance of my lady's eye. 
I am weary of absence : I know too well 
How lonely and tiresome the dull hours tell 
Not to wish every moment to be with her 
Of whom I have long been the worshipper. 
Oh, how I long for the lovely creature! 
The olive-bud, at the general Flood, 
To the patriarch sailor was not sweeter. 

I often pine 
That the gifts of fortune are not mine, 
Yet covet not wealth from the wish to taste 
The enervating sweets of thoughtless waste. 
The slave of pleasure I scorn to be, 
And the usurer's love has no charms for me. 
I wish but an easy competence. 
With a pound to lend to an needy friend, 
But I care not for splendid affluence. 

I sometimes weep 
That I with the lowly my walk must keep : 
I would that my humble name were set 
In the centre of Fame's bright coronet ; 
That my tomb might be decked with a gorgeous stone. 



256 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

And the tears of the virtuous shed thereon. 
Oh ! the thoughts of death should never grieve me, 
Could I stamp my name with a spotless fame, 
And a garland of deathless roses weave me. 

I deeply groan 
When I think on the follies my youth has known, — 
When the still small voice of conscience brings 
Before me the memory of bygone things. 
And its softest whisper appalls me more 
Than the earthquake's crash or the thunder's roar; 
And my sorrow is deeper, because I know 
That neither from chance nor from ignorance, 
But with open eyes, I have wandered so. 

I murmur not 
That the volume of fate to man is shut, — 
That he is forbidden with daring eye 
Into its mysteries to pry. 
Content with the knowledge God has given, 
I seek not to fathom the plans of heaven; 
I believe that good may be found below. 
And that evil is tasted, alas .' I know ; 
Yet I trust there's a balm for every woe, — 
That the saddest night will have a morrow; 
And I hope through faith to live after death. 
In a world that knows nor sin nor sorrow. 



The truest answer to the mourner was, however, yet to 
come. 

It is not the least faulty among men that are most suc- 
cessful in interesting us in their welfare. A ruin often 
awakens deeper emotions than the edifice, however noble, 
could have elicited when entire ; and there is something in 
a broken and ruined character, if we can trace in it the 
lineaments of original beauty and power, that inspires us 
with similar feelings. The friend of the young surgeon 
felt thus. He was in truth a goodly ruin, in which she saw 



THE YOUNG SURGEON. 257 

much to admire and much to regret ; and, impressed by a 
serious and long-cherished belief in the restorative efficacy 
of religion, her pity for him was not unmixed with hope. 
She had treated him on every occasion Avith the kindness 
of a mother ; and now, with the affection and freedom 
proper to the character, she pressed on his consideration 
the important truths which she knew concerned him most 
deeply. He listened with a submissive and respectful at- 
tention, — the effect, doubtless, of those feelings with which 
he must have regarded one so disinterestedly his friend ; 
for the subject could not have been introduced to his notice 
under circumstances more favorable. The sense of obliga- 
tion had softened his heart ; the respectful deference which 
he naturally paid to the sex and character of his fiiend 
prepared him rather to receive than to challenge the truths 
which she urged on his acceptance ; the conviction that a 
heartfelt interest in his welfare furnished her only motive, 
checked that noiseless though fatal under-current of objec- 
tion which can defeat in so many cases an end incontrovert- 
ibly good, by fixing on it the imputation of sinister design ; 
and, above all, there was a plain earnestness in her manner, 
the result of a deep-seated belief, which, disdaining the 
niceties of metaphysical speculation, spoke more powerfully 
to his conscience than it could have done had it armed 
itself with half the arguments of the schools. Rarely does 
mere argument bring conviction to an ingenious mind, fer- 
tile in doubts and objections. Conscience sleeps when the 
rationative faculty contends for victory, — a thing it is 
seldom indifferent to ; and a few perhaps ingenious sophisms 
prove the only fruits of the contest. 

The little vessel lay in , as I have said, for about two 

months, when she received orders to sail for the south of 
England. A storm arose, and she was forced by stress of 
22* 



258 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

weather into Aberdeen. From this place the surgeon first 
wrote to his friend. His epistolary style, like his poetry, 
was characterized by an easy elegance ; and there was no 
incident which he related, however trifling in itself, which 
did not borrow some degree of interest from his pen. He 
relates, in one of his earlier letters, that, in a solitary ramble 
in the neighborhood of Aberdeen, he came to a pictur- 
esque little bridge on the river Don. He had rarely seen 
a prettier spot. There were rocks and trees, and a deep, 
dark stream; and he stood admii-ing it till there passed a 
poor old beggar, of whom he inquired the name of the 
bridge. " It is called," said the mendicant, " the brig of 
Don ; but in my young days it was better known as the 
brig of Balgownie ; and if you be a Scotchman perhaps 
you have hd^rd of it, for there are many prophecies about 
it by Thomas the Rhymer." " Ah," exclaimed the surgeon, 
" ' Balgownie brig's black wa ! ' And so I have been ad- 
miring, for its own sake, the far-famed scene of Byron's 
boyhood. I cannot tell you," he adds, " what I felt on the 
occasion. It was perhaps lucky for me that I had not 
much money in my pocket, but the little that I had made 
the old man happy." 

Our story hastens abruptly to its conclusion. During 
the following winter and the early part of spring, the little 
tender was employed in cruising in the English Channel 
and the neighborhood of Jersey ; and from the latter place 
most of the surgeon's letters to his friends were addressed. 
They relate the progress of an interesting and highly-im- 
portant change in a mind of no ordinary character. There 
was an alteration effected in the very tone of his intellect; 
it seemed, if I may so express myself, as if strung less 
sharply than before, and more in accordance with the real- 
ities of life. Even his love appeared as if changed into a 



THE YOUNG SURGEON. 269 

less romantic but tenderer passion, that sought the wel- 
fare of its object even more than the object itself. But it 
was in his moral nature — in those sentiments of the man 
which look forward and upward ■ — that the metamorpho- 
sis seemed most complete. When a powerful mind first 
becomes the subject of serious impressions, thei-e is some- 
thing in Christianity suited to take it by surprise. When 
viewed at a distance, and with that slight degree of atten- 
tion which the great bulk of mankind are contented to 
bestow on that religion which God revealed, there seems a 
complex obscurity in its peculiar doctrines which contrasts 
strongly with the simplicity of its morals. It seems to lie 
as unconformably (if we may employ the metaphor) as 
some of the deductions of the higher sciences to what is 
termed the common sense of mankind. It seems at first 
sight, for instance, no very rational inference that the 
whiteness of light is the effect of a hai'monious mixture of 
color, or that the earth is confined to its orbit by the op- 
erations of the same law which impels a falling pebble 
towards the ground. And to the careless, because uninter- 
ested observer, such doctrines as the doctrine of the fall 
and the atonement appear rational in as slight a degree. 
But when Deity himself interposes, when the heart is seri- 
ously affected, when the divine law holds up its mirror 
to the conscience, and we begin to examine the pecu- 
liar doctrines in a clearer light and from a nearer point of 
observation, they at once seem to change their charac- 
ter, — to assume so stupendous a massiveness of aspect, to 
discover a profundity so far beyond every depth of a 
merely human philosophy, to appear so wonderfully fit- 
ted to the nature and to the wants of man, that we are 
at once convinced their author can be no other than 
the adorable Being who gave light and gravitation to 



260 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

the universe which he willed to exist. The young sur- 
geon had a mind capacious enough to be impressed by this 
feeling of surprise. He began to see, and to wonder he 
had missed seeing it before, that Christianity is in keep- 
ing, if we may so speak, with the other productions of its 
Author ; that to a creature solely influenced by motive, no 
moral code, however perfect, can be efiicient in directing 
or restraining, except through its connection with some 
heart-influencing belief; that it is essential to his nature 
as man that he meet with a corresponding nature in Deity, 
a human nature like his own, and that he must be con- 
scious of owing to Him more than either his first origin 
or his subsequent support, or any of the minor gifts which 
he shares in common with the inferior animals, and which 
cost the Giver a less price than was paid on Calvary. It 
is unnecessary to expatiate on the new or altered feelings 
which accompanied the change, or to record the process 
of a state of mind described by so many. The surgeon, in 
his last letter to his fi-iend, dwelt on these with an earnest, 
yet half-bashful delight, that, while it showed how much 
they engrossed him, showed also how new it was to him 
either to experience or describe them. 

The next she received regarding him recorded his death. 
It was written at his dying request by a clergyman of Jer- 
sey. He had passed a day, early in April, in the cabin 
of the little vessel, engaged with his books and his pen ; 
towards evening he went on deck ; and, stepping on the 
quay, missed his footing and fell backwards. The spine 
sustained a mortal injury in the fall. He was carried by 
the unskilful hands of sailors to lodgings in the town of 
St. Heller's, a distance of five miles. During this long and 
painful transport, he was, as he afterwards said, conscious 
although speechless, and aware that, if he had been placed 



THE YOUNG SURGEON. 261 

in an easier position, with his head better supported, he 
might have a chance of recovery. Yet he never gave ex- 
pression to a single murmur. Besides the clergyman, he 
was fortunate enough to be assiduously attended by some 
excellent friends whom he had made on occasion of a for- 
mer visit of his vessel to the same port. These he kept 
employed in reading the Scriptures aloud by night and by 
day. As he had formerly drunk deeply of the fount men 
call pleasure, he now drank insatiably at the pure Fount 
of Inspiration. " It is necessary to stop," one of his kind 
attendants would say ; " your fever is rising." " It is only," 
he would reply with a smile, " the loss of a little blood 
after you leave." He lingered thus for about four weeks 
in hopeless suffering, but in the full possession of all his 
mental faculties, till death came to his relief, and he de- 
parted full of the hope of a happy immortality. The last 
tie that bound him to the world was his attachment to the 
lady whose name, so obscurely recorded, has introduced 
his story to the reader. But as death neared, and the 
world receded, he became reconciled to the necessity of 
parting from even her. His last request to the clergyman 
who attended him was, that, after his decease, he should 

write to his friend in , and say, " that if, as he trusted, 

he entered, a sinner saved, into glory, he would have to 
bless her, as being, under God, the honored instrument of 
mercy." 



VIII. 
GEORGE ROSS, THE SCOTCH AGENT. 

CHAPTER I. 



Men resemble the gods in nothing so much as in doing good to 
their fellow-creatures. — Cicero. 



In the letter in which Junius accuses the Duke of Grafton 
of having sold a patent-place in the collection of customs 
to one Mr. Hine, he informs the reader that the person 
employed by his grace in negotiating the business "was 
George Ross, the Scotch Agent, and worthy confidant of 
Lord Mansfield. And no sale by the candle," he adds, 
" was ever conducted with greater formality." Now, slight 
as this notice is, there is something in it sufliciently tangi- 
ble for the imagination to lay hold of. If the reader thinks 
of the Scotch Agent at all, he probably thinks of him as 
one of those convenient creatures so necessary to the prac- 
tical statesman, whose merit does not consist more in their 
being ingenious in a great degree, than in their being 
honest in a very small one. So mixed a thing is poor hu- 
man nature, however, that, though the statement of Junius 
has never yet been fairly controverted, no possible esti- 
mate of character could be more unjust. The Scotch 



GEORGE ROSS, THE SCOTCH AGENT. 263 

Agent, whatever the nature of his services to the Duke of 
Grafton, was in reality a high-minded, and, what is more, 
a truly patriotic man ; so good a person, indeed, that, in 
a period of political heats and animosities, his story, fairly 
told, might teach us a lesson of charity and moderation. 
I Avish I could transport the reader to where his portrait 
hangs, side by side with that of his friend the Lord Chief 
Justice, in the drawing-room of Cromarty House. The air 
of dignified benevolence impressed on the features of the 
handsome old man, with his gray hair curling round his 
temples, would secure a fair hearing for him from even the 
sturdiest of the class who hate their neighbors for the good 
of their country. Besides, the very presence of the noble- 
lookiug lawyer, so much more like the Murray eulogized 
by Pope and Lyttleton than the Mansfield denounced by 
Junius, would of itself serve as a sort of guarantee for the 
honor of his friend. 

George Ross was the son of a petty proprietor of Easter- 
Ross, and succeeded, on the death of his father, to the 
few barren acres on which, for a century or two before, 
the family had been ingenious enough to live. But he 
possessed, besides, what was more valuable than twenty 
such patrimonies, an untiring energy of disposition, based 
on a substratum of the soundest good sense ; and, what 
was scarcely less important than either, ambition enough 
to turn his capacity of employment to the best account. 
Ross-shire a century ago was no place for such a man ; and 
as the only road to preferment at this period was the road 
that led south, George Ross, when very young, left his 
mother's cottage for England, where he spent nearly fifty 
years amongst statesmen and courtiers, and in the enjoy- 
ment of the friendship of such men as President Forbes 
and Lord Mansfield. At length he returned, when an old, 



264 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

gray-headed man, to rank among the greatest capitalists 
and proprietors of the county, and purchased, with other 
lesser properties in the neighborhood, the whole estate of 
Cromarty, f^erhaps he had come to rest him ere he died. 
But there seems to be no such thing as changing one's nat- 
ural bent, when confirmed by the habits of half a lifetime ; 
and the energies of the Scotch Agent, now that they had 
gained him fortune and influence, were as little disposed to 
fall asleep as they had been foity years before. As it was 
no longer necessary, however, that they should be em- 
ployed on his own account, he gave them full scope in 
behalf of his poorei; neighbors. The country around him 
lay dead. There were no manufactories, no trade, no 
knowledge of agriculture, no consciousness that matters 
were ill, and, consequently, no desire of making them bet- 
ter ; and the herculean task imposed upon himself by the 
Scotch Agent, now considerably turned of sixty, was to 
animate and revolutionize the whole. And such was his 
statesman-like sagacity in developing the hitherto undis- 
covered resources of the country, joined to a high-minded 
zeal that could sow liberally in the hope of a late harvest 
for others to reap, that he fully succeeded. 

He first established in the town an extensive manufac- 
tory of hempen cloth, which has ever since employed about 
two hundred persons within its walls, and fully twice that- 
number without. He next built an ale brewery, which, at 
the time of its erection, was by far the largest in the north 
of Scotland. He then furnished the town, at a great ex- 
pense, with an excellent harbor, and set on foot a trade 
in pork which for the last thirty years has been carried 
on by the people of the place to an extent of from about 
fifteen to twenty thousand pounds annually. He set him- 
self, too, to initiate his tenantry in the art of rearing wheat; 



GEORGE ROSS, THE SCOTCH AGENT. 265 

and finding them wofully unwilling to become wiser on the 
subject, he tried the force of example, by taking an ex- 
tensive farm under his own management and conducting 
it on the most approved principles of modern agriculture. 
He established a nail and spade manufactory ; brought 
women from England to instruct the young girls in the art 
of working lace ; provided houses for the poor ; presented 
the town with a neat, substantial building, the upper j^art 
of which serves for a council-room and the lower as a 
prison ; and built for the accommodation of the poor High- 
landers, who came thronging into the town to work on his 
land and in his manufactories, a handsome Gaelic chapel. 
He built for his own residence an elegant house of hewn 
stone ; surrounded it with pleasure-grounds, designed in 
the best style of the art ; planted many hundred acres of 
the less improvable parts of his property ; and laid open 
the hitherto scarcely accessible beauties of the hill of Cro- 
marty by crossing and re-crossing it with well-nigh as many 
walks as there are veins in the human body. He was 
proud of his exquisite landscapes, and of his own skill iu 
heightening their beauty, and fully determined, he said, if 
he but lived long enough, to make Cromarty worth an 
Englishman's while coming all the way from London to 
see it. 

When Oscar fell asleep, says the old Irish bard, it was 
impossible to awaken him before his time except by cut- 
ting off one of his fingers or flinging a rock at his head ; 
and woe to the poor man who disturbed him ! The Agent 
found it every whit as difficult to awaken a sleeping coun- 
try, and iu some respects almost as unsafe. I am afraid 
human natui-e is nearly the same thing in the people that 
it is in their rulers, and that both are^like disposed to 
prefer the man who flatters them to the man who merely 
' 23 



266 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

does them good. George Ross was by no means the most 
popular of proprietors. He disturbed old prejudices, and 
unfixed old habits. The farmers thought it hard that they 
should have to break up their irregular map-like patches 
of land, divided from each other by little strips and cor- 
ners not yet reclaimed from the waste, into awkward- 
looking rectangular fields, and that they durst no longer 
fasten their horses to the plough by the tail, — a piece of 
natural harness evidently formed for the express purpose. 
The townspeople deemed the hempen manufactory un- 
wholesome ; and found that the English lace-women, who 
to a certainty were tea-drinkers, and even not very hostile, 
it was said, to gin, were in a fair way of teaching their 
pupils something more than the mere weaving of lace. 
What could be more heathenish, too, than the little temple 
covered with cockle-shell which the laird had just reared 
on a solitary corner of the hill, but which they soon sent 
spinning over the cliff into the sea, a downward journey 
of a hundred yards ? And then his odious pork trade ! 
There was no prevailing on the people to rear pigs for 
him ; and so he had to build a range of offices, in an out- 
of-the-way nook of his lands, which he stocked with hordes 
of these animals, that he might rear them for himself 
The herds increased in size and number, and, voracious 
beyond calculation, almost occasioned afimine. Even the 
great wealth of the speculatist proved insufticient to sup- 
ply them with food, and the very keepers were in danger 
of being eaten alive. The poor animals seemed departing 
from their very nature ; for they became long and lank, 
and bony as the griffins of heraldry, until they looked more 
like race-horses than pigs; and as they descended with 
every ebb in huge droves to browse on the sea-weed, or 
delve for shell-fish among the pebbles, there was no lack 



GEORGE ROSS, THE SCOTCH AGENT. 267 

of music befitting their condition when the large rock-crab 
revenged with his nippers on their lips the injuries inflicted 
on him with their teeth. Now, all this formed a fine sub- 
ject for joking to people who indulged in a half-Jewish 
dislike of the pig, and who could not guess that the pork 
trade was one day*to pay the rents of half the widows' 
cottages in the country. But no one could lie more open 
than George Ross to that species of ridicule which the men 
who see further than their neighbors, and look more to the 
advantage of others than to their own, cannot fail to en- 
counter. He was a worker in the dark, and at no slight 
expense ; for, though all his many projects were ultimately 
found to be benefits conferred on his country, not one of 
them proved remunerative to himself. But he seems to 
have known mankind too well to have expected a great 
deal from their gratitude, though on one occasion at least 
his patience gave way. 

The town in the course of years had so entirely marched 
to the west, that the town's cross came at length to be 
fairly left behind, with a hawthorn hedge on the one side 
and a garden fence on the other ; and when the Agent had 
completed the house which was to serve as council-room 
and prison to the place, the cross was taken down from its 
stand of more than two centuries, and j^laced in front of 
the new building. That people might the better remem- 
ber the circumstance, there was a showy procession got 
up ; healths were drunk beside the cross in the Agent's 
best wine, and not a little of his best crystal broken against 
it ; and the evening terminated in a ball. It so happened, 
however, through some cross chance, that, though all the 
gentility of the place were to be invited, three young men, 
who deemed themselves quite as genteel as the best of 
their neighbors, were passed over. The dignified manager 



268 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

of the hemp manufactory had received no invitation, nor 
the clever superintendent of the nail- work, nor yet the 
spruce clerk of the brewery ; and as they were all men of 
spirit, it so happened that during the very next night the 
cross was taken down from its new pedestal, broken into 
three pieces, and carried still fui'ther*to the west, to an 
open space where four lanes met ; and there it was found 
in the morning, the jjieces piled over each other, and sur- 
rounded by a profusion of broken ale bottles. The Agent 
was amazingly angry, — angrier, indeed, than his acquaint- 
ance had deemed him capable of becoming ; and in the 
course of the day the town's crier went through the streets 
proclaiming a reward of ten pounds in hand, and a free 
room in Mr. Ross's new buildings for life, to any one who 
would give such information as might lead to the convic- 
tion of the offenders. 

In one of his walks a few days after, the Agent met with 
a poor, miserable-looking Highland woman, who had been 
picking a few withered sticks out of one of his hedges, 
and whose hands and clothes seemed torn by the thorns. 
" Poor old creature," he said, as she dropped her courtesy in 
passing, " you must go to my manager, and tell him I have 
ordered you a barrel of coals. And stay, — you are hun- 
gry : call at my house, in passing, and the servants will find 
you something to bring home with you." The poor wo- 
man blessed him, and looked up hesitatingly in his face. 
She had never betrayed any one, she said ; but his honor 
was so good a gentleman, — so very good a gentleman ; 
and so she thought she had best tell him all she knew 
about the breaking of the cross. She lived in a little gar- 
ret over the room of Jamie Banks, the nailer ; and having 
slept scarcely any all the night in which the cross was 
taken down, — for the weather was bittei'ly cold, and her 



GEORGE ROSS, THE SCOTCH AGENT. 269 

bed-clothes very thin, — she could hear weighty footsteps 
traversing the streets till near morning, wlien the house- 
door opened, and in came Jamie, with a tottering, unequal 
step, and disturbed the whole family by stumbling over a 
stool into his wife's washing-tub. Besides, she had next 
day overheard his wife rating him for staying out to so un- 
timeous an hour, and his remark, in reply, that she would 
do well to keep quiet, unless she wished to see him hanged. 
This was the sort of clue the aflfair required ; and, in fol- 
lowing it up, the unlucky nailer was apprehended and ex- 
amined ; but it was found that, through a singular lapse of 
memory, he had forgotten every circumstance connected 
with the night in question, except that he had been in the 
very best company, and one of the happiest men in the 
world. 

Jamie Banks was decidedly the most eccentric man of 
his day, in at least one parish, — full of small wit and 
small roguery, and famous for a faculty of invention fertile 
enough to have served a poet. On one occasion, when the 
gill of whiskey had risen to three halfpence in Cromarty, 
and could still be bought for a penny in Avoch, he had 
prevailed on a party of his acquaintance to accompany him 
to the latter place, that they might drink themselves rich 
on the strength of the old proverb ; and as they actually 
effected a saving of two shillings in spending six, it was 
clear, he said, that, had not their money failed them, they 
would have made fortunes apiece. Alas for the littleness 
of that great passion, the love of fame ! I have ob- 
served that the tradespeople among whom one meets with 
most instances of eccentricity, are those whose shops, being 
places of general resort, furnish them with space enough 
on which to achieve a humble notoriety, by rendering 
themselves unlike everybody else. To secure to Jamie 
23* 



270 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

Banks due leisure for recollection, he was committed to 
jail. 

He was sitting one evening beside the prison fire, with 
one of his neighbors and the jailer, and had risen to ex- 
clude the chill night air by drawing a curtain over the 
open-barred window of the aj)artment, when a man sud- 
denly started from behind the wall outside, and discharged 
a large stone with tremendous force at his head. The 
missile almost brushed his ear as it sung past, and, re- 
bounding from the opposite wall, rolled along the floor. 
"That maun be Rob Williamson," exclaimed Jamie, "want- 
ing to keep me quiet. Out, neebor Jonathan, an' after 
him." Neebor Jonathan, an active young fellow, sprung to 
the door, caught the sounds of retreating footsteps .as he 
turned the gate, and, dashing after like a greyhound, suc- 
ceeded in laying hold of the coat-skirts of Rob William- 
son, as he strained onwards thi'ough the gate of the hemp 
manufactory. He was immediately secured, and lodged 
in another apartment of the prison ; and in the morning 
Jamie Banks was found to have recovered his memory. 

He had finished working, he said, on the evening after 
the ball, and was just putting on his coat preparatory to 
leaving the shop, when the superintendent called him into 
his writing-room, where he found three persons sitting at 
a table half covered with bottles. Rob Williamson, the 
weaver, was one of these; the other two were the clerk of 
the brewery and the manager of the hemp manufactory ; 
and they were all arguing together on some point of divin- 
ity. The manager cleared a seat for him beside himself, 
and filled his glass thrice in succession, by way of making 
up for the time he had lost. Nothing could be more un- 
true than that the manager was proud. They then all be- 
gan to speak about morals and Mr. Ross, The clerk was 



GEORGE ROSS, THE SCOTCH AGENT. 271 

certain that, with his harbor, and his piggery, and his 
heathen temples, and his lace-women, he would not leave 
a ray of morality in the place ; and Rob was quite as sure 
he was no friend to the gospel. He a builder of Gaelic 
kirks, forsooth ! Had he not yesterday put up a popish 
dagon of a cross, and made the silly mason bodies worship 
it for the sake o' a dram ? And then, how common ale- 
drinking had become in the place ! — in his young days 
they drank nothing but gin, — and what would their 
grandfathers have said to a whigmaleerie o' a ball ! " I 
sipped and listened," continued Jamie, " and thought that 
the time could not have been better spent at an elders* 
meeting in the kirk ; and as the night wore later the con- 
versation became still more edifying, until at length all the 
bottles were emptied, when we sallied out in a body, to 
imitate the old Reformers by breaking the cross. ' We 
may suffer, Jamie, for what we have done,' said Rob to me 
as we parted for the night ; ' but, remember, it was duty, 
Jamie, it was duty ; we have been testifying wi' our hands, 
an' when the hour o' trial comes we mauna be slow in tes- 
tifying wi' our tongues too.' He wasna slack, the deceitfu' 
body!" concluded Jamie, "in trying to stop mine." And 
thus closed the evidence. The Agent was no vindictive 
man. He dismissed his two managers and the clerk, to 
find for themselves a more indulgent master ; but the ser- 
vices of Jamie Banks he still retained ; and the first em- 
ployment which he found for him after his release was the 
fashioning of four iron bars for the repair of the cross. 

The Agent, in the closing scene of his life, was destined 
to experience the unhappiness of blighted hope. He had 
an only son, a weak and very obstinate young man, who, 
without intellect enough to appreciate his well-calculated 
schemes, and yet conceit enough to sit in judgment on 



272 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

them, was ever showing his spirit by opposing a sort of 
selfish nonsense, that aped the semblance of common sense, 
to the expansive and benevolent philosophy of his father. 
But the old man bore patiently with his conceit and folly. 
Like the great bulk of the class who attain to wealth and 
influence through their own exertions, he was anxiously 
ambitious to live in his posterity, and be the founder of a 
family ; and he knew it was quite as much according to 
the nature of things that a fool might be the father, as 
that he should be the son, of a wise man. He secured, 
therefore, his lands to his posterity by the law of entail ; 
did all that education and example could do for the young 
man ; and succeeded in getting him married to a sweet, 
amiable English woman, the daughter of a bishop. But, 
alas ! his precautions, and the hopes in which he indulged, 
proved equally vain. The young man, only a few months 
after his marriage, was piqued, when at table, by some re- 
mark of his father regarding his mode of carving, — some 
slight allusion, it is said, to the maxim that little men can- 
not afford to neglect little matters, — and rising, with much 
apparent coolness, from beside his wife, he stepped into an 
adjoining room, and there blew out his brains with a pistol. 
The stain of his blood may still be seen in two large 
brownish-colored blotches on the floor. 

George Ross survived his son for several years ; and he 
continued, though a sadder and a graver man, to busy him- 
self with all his various speculations as before. It was ob- 
served, however, that he seemed to care less than formerly 
for whatever was exclusively his* own, for his fine house 
and his beautiful lands, and that he chiefly employed him- 
self in maturing his several projects for the good of his 
country-folks. Time at length began to set its seal on his 
labors, by discovering their value ; though not until death 



GEORGE ROSS, THE SCOTCH AGENT. 273 

had first affixed his to the character of -the wise and be- 
nevolent projector. He died full of years and honor, 
mourned by the poor, and regretted by every one ; and 
even those who had opposed his innovations with the 
warmest zeal were content to remember him, with all the 
others, as " the good laird." 



IX. 

MCCULLOCH THE MECHANICIAN. 

CHAPTER I. 

Anything may become nature to man ; the rare thing is to find 
a nature that is truly natural. — Anon. 

In the " Scots Magazine" for May 1789, there is a report 
by Captain Philip d'Auvergne, of the Narcissus frigate, on 
the practical utility of Kenneth M'Culloch's sea-compasses. 
The captain, after an eighteen months' trial of their merits, 
compared with those of all the other kinds in use at the 
time, describes them as immensely superior, and earnestly 
recommends to the admiralty their general introduction 
into the navy. In passing, on one occasion, through the 
Race of Alderney in the winter of 1787, there broke out a 
frightful storm ; and so violent was the opposition of the 
wind and tide, that while his vessel was sailing at the rate 
of eleven miles on the surface, she was making scarce any 
headway by the land. The sea rose tremendously, at 
once short, high, and irregular; and the motions of the 
vessel were so fearfully abrupt and violent that scarce a 
seaman aboard could stand on deck. At a time so critical, 
when none of the compasses supplied from his majesty's 



m'culloch the mechanician. 2T5 

stores would stand, but vacillated more than three points 
on each side of the pole, " it commanded," says the captain, 
"the admiration of the whole crew, winning the confidence 
of even the most timorous, to see how quickly and readily 
M'Culloch's steering compass recovered the vacillations 
communicated to it by the motion of the ship and the 
shocks of the sea, and how truly, in every brief interval of 
rest, it pointed to the pole." It is further added, that on 
the captain's recommendation these compasses were tried 
on board the Andromeda, commanded at the time by 
Prince. William Henry, our late king; and so satisfied was 
the prince of the utility of the invention, that he, too, be- 
came a strenuous advocate for their general introduction, 
and testified his regard for the ingenious inventor by ap- 
pointing him his compass-maker. M'Culloch, however, did 
not long survive the honor, dying a few years after; and 
we have been unable to trace with any degree of certainty 
the further history of his improved compass. But, though 
only imperfectly informed regarding his various inventions, 
— and they are said to have been many, and singularly 
practical, — we are tolerably well acquainted with the story 
of his early life ; and, as it furnishes a striking illustration 
of that instinct of genius, if we may so express ourselves, 
which leads the possessor to exactly the place in which his 
services may be of most value to the community, by ren- 
dering him useless and unhappy in every other, we think 
we cannot do better than communicate it to the reader. 

There stood, about forty yeai-s ago, on the northern side 
of the parish of Cromarty, an old farm-house, — one of those 
low, long, dark-looking erections of turf and stone which 
still survive in the remoter districts of Scotland, as if to 
show how little man may sometimes improve, in even a 
civilized country, on the first rude shelter which his ne- 



276 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

cessities owed to his ingenuity. A worn-out barrel, fixed 
slantwise in the ridge, served as a chimney for the better 
apartment, — the spare room of the domicile, — which was 
furnished also with a glazed window ; but the smoke was 
suffered to escape from the others, and the light to enter 
them, as chance or accident might direct. The eaves, over- 
hung by stonecrop and bunches of the houseleek, drooped 
heavily over the small blind windows and low door; and 
a row of ancient elms, which rose from out the fence of a 
neglected garden, spread their gnarled and ponderous 
arms over the roof Such was the farm-house of Wood- 
side, in which Kenneth M'Culloch, the son of the farmer, 
was born, some time in the early half of the last century. 
The family from which he sprang — a race of honest, plod- 
ding tacksmen — had held the place from the proprietor 
of Cromarty for more than a hundred years ; and it was 
deemed quite a matter of course that Kenneth, the eldest 
son, should succeed his father in the farm. Never was 
there a time, in at least this part of the country, in which 
agriculture stood more in need of the services of original 
and inventive minds. There was not a wheeled cart in the 
parish, nor a plough constructed on the modern principle. 
There was no changing of seed to suit the varieties of soil, 
no green cropping, no rotatory system of production ; and 
it seemed as if the main object of the farmer had been to 
raise the least possible amount of grain at the greatest pos- 
sible expense of labor. The farm of Woodside was prim- 
itive enough in its usages and modes of tillage to have 
formed a study to the antiquary. Towards autumn, when 
the fields vary most in color, it resembled a rudely-executed 
chai't of some large island, so irregular were the patches 
which composed it, and so broken on every side by a sur- 
rounding sea of brown, sterile moor, that here and there 



m'culloch the mechanician. 277 

went windhig into the interior in long river-like strips, 
or expanded within into friths and lakes. In one corner 
there stood a heap of stones, in another a thicket of furze, 
here a piece of bog, there a broken bank of clay. The 
implements, too, with which the fields were labored were 
quite as uncouth in their appearance as the fields them- 
selves. There was the single-stilted plough, that did little 
more than scratch the surface ; the wooden-toothed hai'- 
row, that did hardly so much ; the cumbrous sledge, — no 
inconsiderable load of itself, — for can-ying home the corn 
in harvest ; and the basket-woven conical cart, with its 
rollers of wood, for bearing out the manure in spring. 
With these, too, there was the usual misproportion to the 
extent and produce of the farm of lean, inefficient cattle, — 
four half-starved animals performing with incredible labor 
the work of one. And yet, now that a singularly inven- 
tive mind had come into existence on this very farm, and 
thousfh its attentions had been directed, as far as external 
influence could direct them, on the various employments 
of the farmer, the interests of husbandry were to be in no 
degree improved by the circumstance. Nature, in the midst 
of her wisdom, seems to cherish a dash of the eccentric. 
The ingenuity of the farmer's son was to be employed, not 
in facilitating the labors of the farmer, but in inventing 
binnacle-lamps which would yield an undiminished light 
amid the agitations of a tempest, and in constructing mar- 
iners' compasses on a new principle. There are instances 
of a similar character furnished by the experience of almost 
every one. In passing some years since over a dreary 
moor in the interior of the country, our curiosity was ex- 
cited by a miniature mast, furnished, like that of a ship, 
with shrouds and yards, bearing a-top a gaudy pinnet, 
which we saw beside a little Highland cottage ; and on 
24 



278 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

inquiring regarding it at the door, we were informed that 
it was the work of the cottager's son, a lad who, though he 
had scarcely ever seen the sea, had taken a strange fancy- 
to the life of a sailor, and who had left his father only a 
few weeks before to serve aboard a man-of-war. 

Kenneth's first employment was the tending of a flock of 
sheep, the property of his father ; and wretchedly did he 
acquit himself of the charge. The farm is bounded on the 
eastern side by a deep, bosky ravine, through the bottom 
of which a scanty runnel rather trickles than flows ; and 
when it was discovered on any occasion that Kenneth's 
flock had been left to take care of themselves, and of his 
father's corn to boot, — and such occasions were wofully 
frequent, — Kenneth himself was almost invariably to be 
found in this ravine. He would sit for hours among the 
bushes, engaged with his knife in carving uncouth faces 
on the heads of walking-sticks, or in constructing little 
water-mills, or in making Lilliputian pumps of the, dried 
stalks of the larger hemlock, and in raising the waters of 
the runnel to basins dug in the sides of the hollow. Some- 
times he quitted his charge altogether, and set out for a 
meal-mill about a quarter of a mile from the farm, where 
he would linger for half a day at a time watching the mo- 
tion of the wheels. His father complained that he could 
make nothing of him ; " the boy," he said, " seemed to 
have nearly as much sense as other boys of his years, and 
yet for any one useful purpose he was nothing better than 
an idiot." His mother, as is common with mothers, and 
who was naturally an easy, kind-hearted woman, had bet- 
ter hopes of him. Kenneth, she affirmed, was only a little 
peculiar, and would turn out well after all. He was grow- 
ing up, however, without improving in the slightest ; and 
when he became tall enough for the plough, he made a 



M'CULLOCH THE MECHANICIAN. 279 

dead stand. He would go and be a tradesman, he said, a 
mason or smith or house-carpenter, — anything his friends 
chose to make him, — but a farmer he would not be. His 
father, after a fruitless struggle to overcome his obstinacy, 
carried him with him to an acquaintance in Cromarty, an 
ingenious cabinet-maker, named Donald Sandison ; and, 
after candidly confessing that he was of no manner of use 
at home, and would, he was afi-aid, be of little use any- 
where, he bound him by indenture to the mechanic for 
four years. 

Kenneth's new master — a shrewd, sagacious man, who 
had been actively engaged, it was said, in the Porteous 
mob about twenty years before — was one of the best work- 
men in his profession in the north of Scotland. His scru- 
toires and wardrobes were in repute up to the close of the 
last century ; and in the ancient art of wainscot carving he 
had no equal in the country. He was an intelligent man, 
too, as well as a superior mechanic. He was a general 
reader, as a little old-fashioned library in the possession of 
his grandson still remains to testify ; and he had studied 
Paladio, iu the antique translation of Godfrey Richards, 
and knew a little of Euclid. With all his general intelli- 
gence, however, and all his skill, he failed to discover the 
latent capabilities of his apprentice. Kenneth was dull 
and absent, and had no heart to his work ; and though he 
seemed to understand the principles on which his master's 
various tools were used, and the articles of his trade con- 
structed, as well at least as any workman in the shop, there 
were none among them who used the tools so awkwardly, 
or constructed the articles so ill. An old botching carpen- 
ter who wrought in a little shop at the other end of the 
town was known to the boys of the place by the humorous 
aj)pellation of " Spull [t. e. spoil] the Wood," and a lean- 



280 TALES AND SKETCHES. . 

sided, ill-conditioned boat -which he had built, as " the 
Wilful Murder." Kenneth came to be regarded as a sort 
of second " Spull the Wood," — as a fashioner of rickety- 
tables, ill-fitted dra-vvers, and chairs that, when sat upon, 
creaked like badly-tuned organs ; and the boys, "who were 
beginning to regard him as fair game, sometimes took the 
liberty of asking him whether he, too, was not going to 
build a boat? Such, in short, were his deficiencies as a 
mechanic, that in the third year of his apprenticeship his 
master advised his father to take him home with him and 
set him to the plough ; an advice, however, on which the 
farmer, warned by his previous experience, sturdily refused 
to act. 

It was remarked that Kenneth acquired more in the last 
year of his apprenticeship than in all the others. His skill 
as a "workman still ranked a little below the average abil- 
ity ; but then it was only a little below it. He seemed, 
too, to enjoy more, and become less bashful and a-wkward. 
His master on one occasion took him aboard a vessel in the 
harbor to repair some injury which her bulwarks had sus- 
tained in a storm ; and Kenneth, for the first time in his 
life, was introduced to the mariner's compass. The master, 
in after days, when his apprentice had become a great man, 
used to relate the circumstance with much complacency, 
and compare him, as he bent over the instrument in 
wonder and admiration, to a negro of the Kanga tribe 
worshipping the elephant's tooth. On the close of his ap- 
prenticeship he left this part of the country for London, 
accompanied by his master's eldest son, a lad of rather 
thoughtless disposition, but, like his father, a first-rate 
workman. 

Kenneth soon began to experience the straits and hard- 
ships of the inferior mechanic. His companion found little 



M'CULLOCH THE MECHANICIAN. 281 

difficulty in procuring employment, and none at all in re- 
taining it when once jDrocured. Kenneth, on the contrary, 
was tossed about from shop to shop, and from one estab- 
lishment to another ; and for a full twelvemonth, during 
the half of which he was wholly unemployed, he did not 
work for more tlian a fortnight together with any one 
master. It would have fared worse with liini than it did 
had it not been for his companion, Willie Sandison, who 
generously shared his earnings with him every time he 
stood in need of his assistance. In about a year after they 
had gone to London, however, Willie, an honest and warm- 
hearted, but thoughtless lad, was inveigled into a bad, dis- 
reputable marriage, and lost, in consequence, his wonted 
ability to assist his companion. We. have seen one of 
Kenneth's letters to his old master, written about this time, 
in which he bewails Willie's mishap, and dwells gloomily 
on his own prospects. How these first began to brighten we 
are unable to say, for there occurs about this period a wide 
gap in his story, which all our inquiries i-egarding him 
have not enabled us to fill ; but in a second letter to his 
mother, now before us, which bears date 1772, just ten 
years after the other, there are the proofs of a surprising 
improvement in his circumstances and condition. 

He writes in high spirits. Just before sitting down to 
his desk, he had hieard from his old friend W^illie, who had 
gone out to one of the colonies, where he was tliriving, in 
spite of his wife. He had heard, too, by the same post, 
fi'om his mother, who had been so kind to him during his 
luckless boyhood ; and the old woman was well. He had, 
besides, been enabled to i-emove from his former lodging 
to a fine, airy house in Duke's Court, opposite St. Martin's 
Church, for which he had engaged, he said, to pay a rent of 
forty-two pounds per annum — a very considerable sum 
24* 



282 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

sixty-eight years ago ; and he had entered into an advan- 
tageous contract with Catherine of Russia, for furnishing 
all the philosophical instruments of a new college then 
erecting in St. Petersburg, a contract which promised to 
secure about two years' profitable employment to himself 
and seven workmen. In the ten years which had inter- 
vened between the dates of his two letters, Kenneth M'Cul- 
loch had become one of the most skilful and inventive 
mechanics in London, perhaps in the world. He rose 
gradually into affluence and celebrity, and for a considera- 
ble period before his death his gains were estimated at 
about a thousand a year. His story, however, illustrates 
rather the wisdom of nature than that of Kenneth M'Cul- 
loch. We think all the more highly of Franklin for being 
so excellent a printer, and of Burns for excelling all his 
companions in the labors of the field ; nor did the skill or 
vigor with which they pursued their ordinary employments 
hinder the one from taking his place among the first phil- 
osophers and first statesmen of the age, nor prevent the 
other from achieving his wide-spread celebiity as at once 
the most original and most popular of modern poets. Be 
it remembered, however, that there is a narrow and lim- 
ited cast of genius, unlike that of either Burns or Franklin, 
which, though of incalculable value in its own sphere, is of 
no use whatever in any other; and to precipitate it on its 
proper object by the jDressure of external circumstances, 
and the general inaptitude of its possessor for other pur- 
suits, seems to be part of the wise economy of Providence, 
Had Kenneth M'Cullotfh betaken himself to the plough, 
like his father and grandfather, he would have been, like 
them, the tacksman of Woodside, and nothing more ; had 
he found his proper vocation in cabinet-making, he would 
have made tables and chairs for life, like his ingenious 
master Donald Sandison. 



X. 

THE SCOTCH MERCHANT 

OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 

CHAPTER I. 

Custom forms us all. Our thoughts, our morals, our most fixed 
beliefs, are consequences of our place of birth. — Hill. 

It is according to the fixed economy of human affairs 
that individuals should lead, and that masses should follow ; 
for the adorable Being who wills that the lower order of 
minds should exist by myriads, and produces the higher so 
rarely, has willed, also, by inevitable consequence, that the 
many should be guided by the few. On the other hand, it 
is not less in accordance with the dictates of His immuta- 
ble justice, that the interests of the few should be subor- 
dinate to the more extended interests of the many. The 
leading minds are to be regarded rather as formed for the 
masses, than the masses for them. True it is, that, while 
the one principle acts with all the undeviating certainty 
of a natural law, the other operates partially and inter- 
ruptedly, with all the doubtful efficiency of a moral one ; 
and hence those long catalogues of crimes committed 
against the species by their natural leaders which so fill 
the pages of history. We see man as the creature of des- 



284 TALES AND SKETCHES. ' 

tiny conforming unresistingly to the one law; as a* free 
agent, accountable for all his actions, yielding an imper- 
fect and occasional obedience to the other. And yet his 
duty and his true interest, were he but wise enough to be 
convinced of it, are in' every case the same. The following 
chapters, as they contain the history of a mind of the 
higher order, that, in doing good to others, conferred solid 
benefits on itself, may serve simply to illustrate this impor- 
tant truth. They may serve, too, to show the numerous 
class whose better feelings are suffered to evaporate in idle 
longings for some merely conceivable field of exertion, that 
wide spheres of usefulness may be furnished by situa- 
tions comparatively unpromising. They may afibrd, be- 
sides, occasional glimpses of the beliefs, manners, and opin- 
ions of an age by no means remote from our own, but in 
many respects essentially diflEerent from it in spirit and 
character. 

The Lowlanders of the north of Scotland were beginning, 
about the year 1700, gradually to recover the effects of 
that state of miserable depression into which they had been 
plunged for the greater part of the previous century. There 
was a slow awakening of the commercial spirit among the 
more enterprising class of minds, whose destiny it is to 
move in the van of society as the guides and pioneers of 
the rest. The unfortunate expedition of Darien had dissi- 
pated well-nigh the entire capital of the country only a few 
years before, and ruined almost all the greater merchants 
of the large towns. But the energies of the people, now 
that they were no longer borne down by the wretched 
despotism of the Stuarts, were not to be repressed by a 
single blow. Almost every seaport and larger town had 
its beginnings of trade. Younger sons of good family, who 
would have gone, only half a century before, to serve as 



THE SCOTCH MEKCHANT. 285 

mercenaries in the armies of the Continent, were learning 
to employ themselves as merchants at home. And almost 
every small town had its shopkeeper, who, after passing 
the early part of his life as a farmer or mechanic, had set 
himself, in the altered state of the country, to acquire the 
habits of his new profession, and employed his former 
savings in trade. 

Among these last was James Forsyth, a native of the 
province of Moray. He had spent the first thirty years of 
his life as a mason and builder. His j^rofession was a 
wandering one, and he had received from nature the abil- 
ity of profiting by the opportunities of observation which 
it afforded. He had marked the gradual introduction 
among the people of new tastes for the various articles of 
foreign produce and manufacture which were beginning to 
flow into the kingdom, and had seen how large a propor- 
tion the profits of the trader bore — as they always do im 
the infancy of trade — to the amount of capital employed. 
Resigning, therefore, his old profession, he opened a small 
shop in the town of Cromarty, whose lucrative herring- 
fishery rendered it at this period one of the busiest little 
plafces in the noi'th of Scotland. And as he was at once 
steady and enterprising, rigidly just in his dealings, and 
possessed of shrewd good sense, he had acquired, ere the 
year 1722, when his eldest son, "William, the subject of the 
following memoir, Avas born to him, what" at that period 
was deemed considerable wealth. His marriage had taken 
place, somewhat late in life, little more than a twelvemonth 
before. 

William received from nature, what nature only can 
besto'^, great force of character, and great kindliness of 
heart. The town of Cromarty at the time was singularly 
fortunate in its schoolmaster, Mr. David M'Culloch, a gen- 



286 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

tleman who terminated a long and very useful life, many 
years after, as the minister of a wild Highland parish in 
Perthshire ; and William, who in infancy even had begun 
to manifest that restless curiosity which almost always 
characterizes the dawn of a superior intellect, was placed 
at a very early age under his care. The school — one of 
Knox's strongholds of the Reformation — was situated in 
a retired wooden corner behind the houses, with the win- 
dows, which were half-buried in the thatch, opening to the 
old, time-worn Castle of Cromarty. There could not be a 
more formidable spectre of the past than the old tower. 
It had been from time immemorial the seat of the heredi- 
tary sheriffs of the district, whose powers at this period 
still remained entire ; and its tall, narrow front of blind 
wall, its embattled turrets and hanging bartizans, seemed 
associated with the tyranny and violence of more than a 
thousand years. But the low, mean-looking building at 
the foot of the hill was a masked battery raised against its 
authority, which was to burst open its dungeon-door, and 
to beat down its gallows. There is a class — the true 
aristocracy of nature — which have but to aiise from 
among the people that the people may be free ; and the 
humble old school did its part in separating its due pro- 
portion of these from the mass. Of two of the boys who 
sat at the same form with William Forsyth, one, the son 
of the town-clerk, afterwards represented the county in 
Parliament ; and the other, of still humbler parentage, at- 
tracted, many years after, when libiarian of the University 
of Edinburgh and Professor of Oriental Languages, the 
notice of the far-known Dr. Samuel Johnson. 

The scheme of tuition established in our Scotch s'chools 
of this period was exactly that which had been laid down 
by Knox and Craig, in the Book of Discipline, rather more 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 287 

than a century and a half before. Times had altered, how- 
ever; and, though still the best possible, perhaps, for minds 
of a superior order, it was no longer the best for intellects 
of the commoner class. The scheme drawn up by our 
first reformers was stamped by the liberality of men who 
had learned from experience that tyranny and superstition 
derive their chief support from ignorance. Almost all the 
knowledge which books could supply at the time was locked 
up in the learned languages. It was appointed, therefore, 
" that young men who "purposed to travill in some handi- 
craft or other profitable exercise for the good of the com- 
monwealth, should first devote ane certain time to grammar 
and the Latin tongue, and ane certain time to the other 
tongues and the study of philosophy." But what may 
have been a wise and considerate act on the part of the 
ancestor, may degenerate into merely a foolish custom on 
the part of the descendant. Ere the times of Mr. M'Cul- 
loch, we had got a literature of our own ; and if useful 
knowledge be learning, men might have become learned 
through an acquaintance with English reading alone. Our 
fathers, however, pursued the course which circumstances 
had rendered imperative in the days of their great-grand- 
fathers, merely because their great-grandfathers had pur- 
sued it ; and the few years which were spent in school by 
the poorer pupils of ordinary capacity, were absurdly frit- 
tered away in acquiring a little bad Latin and a very little 
worse Greek. So strange did the half-learfiing of our 
common people, derived in this way, appear to our south- 
ern neighbors, that there are writers of the last century 
who, in describing a Scotch footman or mechanic, rarely 
omit niaking his knowledge of the classics an essential part 
of the character. The barber in " Roderick Random " 
quotes Horace in the original ; and Foote, in one of his 



288 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

farces, introduces a Scotch valet, who, when some one 
inquires of him whether he be a Latinist, indignantly ex- 
claims, " Hoot awa, man ! a Scotchman and no understand 
Latin [" 

The school of Cromarty, like the other schools of the 
kingdom, produced its Latinists who caught fish and made 
slioes ; and it is not much more than twenty years since 
the race became finally extinct. I have heard stories of 
an old house-painter of the place, who, having survived 
most of his school-fellows and coittemporaries, used to re- 
gret, among his other vanished pleasures, the pleasure he 
could once derive from an inexhaustible fund of Latin quo- 
tation, which the ignorance of a younger generation had 
rendered of little more value to him than the paper-money 
of an insolvent bank ; and I remember an old cabinet- 
maker who was in the practice, when his sight began to 
fail him, of carrying his Latin N^ew Testament with him to 
church, as it chanced to be printed in a clearer type than 
any of his English ones. It is said, too, of a learned fisher- 
man of the reign of Queen Anne, that, when employed one 
day among his tackle, he was accosted in Latin by the pro- 
prietor of Cromarty, who, accompanied by two gentlemen 
from England, was sauntering along the shore, and that, to 
the surprise of the strangers, he replied with considerable 
fluency in the same language. William Forsyth was a 
Latinist, like most of his school-fellows ; but the natural 
tone of his mind, and the extent of his information, were in 
keeping with the acquirement ; and while there must have 
been something sufiiciently grotesque and incongruous, as 
the satirists show us, in the association of a classic litera- 
ture with humble employments and very ordinary modes of 
thought and expression, nothing, on the other hand, could 
have seemed less so than that an enterprising and liberal- 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 289 

minded merchant should have added to the manners and 
sentiments of the gentleman the tastes and attainments of 
the scholar. 



CHAPTER II, 

The wise and active conquer difficulties by daring to attempt them ; Sloth 
and Folly shiver and shrink at sight of toil and hazard, and make the 
impossibility they fear. — Rowe. 

William Forsyth in his sixteenth year quitted school, 
and was placed by his father in a counting-house in Lon- 
don, where he formed his first acquaintance with trade. 
Circumstances, however, rendered the initiatory course a 
very brief one. His father, James Forsyth, died suddenly 
in the following year, 1739 ; and, leaving London at the 
request of his widowed mother, whose family now consisted 
of two other sons and two daughters, — all of them, of course, 
younger than himself, — he entered on his father's business 
at the early age of seventeen. In one interesting instance 
I have found the recollection of his short stay in London 
incidentally connected with the high estimate of his char- 
acter and acquirements formed by one of the shrewdest 
and most extensively informed of his mercantile acquaint- 
ance. " I know," says a lady who has furnished me with 
some of the materials of these chapters, " that Mr. Forsyth 
must have spent some time in a London counting-house, 
from often having heard my father repeat, as a remark of 
the late Henry Davidson of Tulloch, that ' had the Cro- 
marty merchant remained in the place where he received 
25 



290 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

his first introduction to business, he would hare been, 
what no Scotchman ever was, lord mayor of London.' " I 
need hardly add that the remark is at least half a century 
old. 

The town of Cromarty, at the time of Mr. Forsyth's set- 
tlement in it, was no longer the scene of busy trade which 
it had been twenty years before. The herring-fishery of 
the place, at one time the most lucrative on the eastern 
coast of Scotland, had totally failed, and the great bulk of 
the inhabitants, who had owed to it their chief means of 
subsistence, had fallen into abject poverty. They seemed 
fast sinking, too, into that first state of society in which 
there is scarce any division of labor. The mechanics in the 
town caught their own fish, raised their own corn, tanned 
their own leather, and wore clothes which had employed 
no other manufacturers than their own families and their 
neighbor the weaver. There was scarce any money in 
the district. Even the neighboring proprietors paid their 
tradesmen in kind ; and a few bolls of malt or barley, or a 
few stones of flax or wool, settled the yearly account. 
There could not, therefore, be a worse or more hopeless 
scene for the shopkeeper ; and had William Forsyth re- 
stricted himself to the trade of his father, he must inevitably 
have sunk with the sinking fortunes of the place. Young 
as he was, however, he had sagacity enough to perceive 
that Cromarty, though a bad field for the retail trader, 
might prove a very excellent one for the merchant. Its 
valuable, though at this time neglected harbor, seemed 
suited to render it, what it afterwards became, the key 
of the adjacent country. The neighboring friths, too, — 
those of Dingwall, Dornoch, and Beauly, which wind far 
into the Highlands of Ross and Sutherland, — formed so 
many broad pathways leading into districts which had no 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 291 

other roads at that period ; and the towns of Tain, Dor- 
noch, Dingwall, Campbelton, and Fortrose, with the seats 
of numerous proprietors, are situated on their shores. The 
bold and original plan of the young trader, therefore, was 
to render Cromarty a sort of depot for the whole ; to fur- 
nish the shopkeepers of the several towns with the com- 
modities in which they dealt, and to bring to the very 
doors of the proprietors the various foreign articles of com- 
fort and luxury with which commerce could alone supply 
them. And, launching boldly into the speculation at a 
time when the whole country seemed asleep around him, 
he purchased a freighting-boat for the navigation of the 
three friths, and hired a large sloop for trading with Hol- 
land and the commercial towns of the south. 

The failure of the herring trade of the place had been oc- 
casioned by the disappearance of the herrings, which, after 
frequenting the Frith in immense shoals for a long series 
of years, had totally deserted it. It is quite according to 
the nature of the fish, however, to resume their visits as 
suddenly and unexpectedly as they have bi'oken them 0% 
though not until after the lapse of so many seasons, per- 
haps, that the fishermen have ceased to watch for their 
appearance in their old haunts, or provide the tackle neces- 
sary for their capture ; and in this way a number of years 
are souietimes sufiered to pass, after the return of the fish, 
ere the old trade is re-established. To guard against any 
such waste of opportunity on the part of his townspeople 
was the first care of William Forsyth, after creating, as it 
were, a new and busy trade for himself; and, representing 
the case to the more intelligent gentlemen of the district, 
and some of the wealthier merchants of Inverness, he suc- 
ceeded in forming them into a society for the encourage- 
ment of the herring-fishery, which provided a yearly pre- 



292 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

miam of twenty marks Scots for the first barrel of herrings 
caught every season in the Moray Frith. The suna was 
small ; but as money at the time was very valuable, it 
proved a sufficient inducement to the fishermen and trades- 
people of the place to fit out a few boats, about the begin- 
ning of autumn every year, to sweep over the various fish- 
ing-banks for the herrings ; and there were few seasons in 
which some one crew or other did not catch enough to 
entitle them to the premium. At length, however, their 
tackle wore out ; and Mr. Forsyth, in pursuance of his 
scheme, provided himself, at some little expense, with a 
complete drift of nets, which were carried to sea each sea- 
son by his boatmen, and the search kept up. His exer- 
tions, however, could only merit success, without securing 
it. The fish returned for a few seasons in considerable 
bodies, and several thousand ban-els were caught ; but 
they soon deserted the Frith as entirely as before ; and 
more than a century elapsed from their first disappearance 
ere they revisited their old haunts with such regularity 
and in such numbers as to render the trade remunerative 
to either the curers or the fishermen. 

Unlike the herring speculation, however, the general 
trade of AVilliam Forsyth was eminently successful. It 
was of a miscellaneous character, as became the state of a 
country so poor and so thinly peopled, and in which, as 
there was scarce any division of labor, one merchant had 
to perform the work of many. He supplied the proprietors 
with teas and wines and spiceries, with broadcloths, glass, 
delft-ware, Flemish tiles, and pieces of japanned cabinet- 
work ; he furnished the blacksmith with iron from Sweden, 
the carpenter with tar and spars from Norway, and the 
farmer with flaxseed from Holland. He found, too, in 
other countries markets for the produce of our own. The 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 293 

exports of the north of Scotland at this period were mostly 
malt, wool, and salmon. Almost all rents were paid in 
kind or in labor; the proprietors retaining in their own 
hands a portion of tlieir estates, termed demesnes or mains, 
which was cultivated mostly by their tacksmen and feuars, 
as part of their proper service. Each proprietor, too, had his 
storehouse or girnel, — a tall, narrow building, the strong- 
box of the time, which at the Martinmas of every year was 
filled from gable to gable with the grain-rents paid to him 
by his tenants, and the produce of his own farm. His sur- 
plus cattle found their way south, under charge of the dro- 
vers of the period ; but it proved a more difficult matter 
to dispose to advantage of his surplus corn, mostly barley, 
until some one, more skilful in speculation than the others, 
originated the scheme of converting it into malt, and ex- 
porting it into England and Flanders. And to so great 
an extent was this trade carried on about the middle of the 
last century, that, in the town of Inverness, the English 
under Cumberland, in the long-remembered year of Cullo- 
den, found almost every second building a malt-barn. 

The town of Cromarty suffered much at this period, in 
at least the severer winters, from scarcity of fuel. The 
mosses of the district were just exhausted ; and as our 
proprietors had not yet betaken themselves to planting, 
there were no woods, except in some of the remoter re- 
cesses of the country, where the remains of some of the 
ancient forests were still suffered to survive. Peats were 
occasionally brought to the town in boats from the oppo- 
site side of the Frith ; but the supply was precai'ious and 
insufficient, and the inhabitants were content at times to 
purchase the heath of the neighboring hill, in patches of 
an hundred square yards, and at times even to^use for fuel 
the dried dung of their cattle. « A Cromarty fire" was a 
25* 



294 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

term used over the country to designate a fire just gone 
out ; and some humorist of the period has represented a 
Cromarty farmer, in a phrase which became proverbial, as 
giving his daughter the key of the peat-chest, and bidding 
her take out a peat and a half that she might put on a 
good fire. It was the part of Mr. Forsyth to divest the 
proverb of its edge, by opening up a trade with the noi'th- 
em ports of England, and introducing to the acquaintance 
of his townspeople the "black stones" of Newcastle, which 
have been used ever since as the staple fuel of the place. 
To those who know how very dependent the inhabitants 
are on this useful fossil, there seems an intangible sort of 
strangeness in the fact that it is not yet a full century 
since Mr. Forsyth's slooj? entered the bay with the first 
cargo of coal ever brought into it. One almost expects to 
hear next of the man who first taught them to rear corn, 
or to bi*eak in, from their state of original wildness, the 
sheep and the cow. 

Mr. Forsyth had entered upon his twenty-fourth year, 
and had been rather more than six years engaged in busi- 
ness, when the rebellion broke out. There was an end to 
all security for the time, and of course an end to trade ; but 
even the least busy found enough to employ them in the 
perilous state of the country. Bands of marauders, the 
very refuse of the Highlands, — for its better men had 
gone to the south with the rebel army, — went prowling 
over the Lowlands, making war with all alike, whether 
Jacobites or Hanoverians, who were rich enough to be 
robbed. Mr. Forsyth's sloop, in one of her coasting voy- 
ages of this period, when laden with a cargo of government 
stores, was forced by stress of weather into the Dornoch 
Frith, where she was seized by a party of Highlanders, 
who held her for three days, in the name of the prince. 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 295 

They did little else, however, than consume the master's 
sea-stock, and joke with the ship-boy, a young but very in- 
telligent lad, who, for many years after, when Mr. Forsyth 
had himself become a ship-owner, was the master of his 
vessel. He was named Robertson ; and as there were sev- 
eral of the Robertsons of Struan among the party, he was 
soon on very excellent terras with them. On one occasion, 
however, when rallying some of the Sti'uans on their under- 
taking, he spoke of their leader as " the Pretender." " Be- 
ware, my boy," said an elderly Highlander, " and do not 
again repeat that word. There are men in the ship who, if 
they heard you, would perhaps take your life for it ; for 
remember, we are not all Robertsons." Another party of 
the marauders took possession of the town of Cromarty for 
a short time, and dealt after the same manner with the 
stores of townspeople, whether of food or clothing, as the 
other had done with the stores of the shipmaster. But 
they were rather mischievous thieves than dangerous ene- 
mies ; and except that they robbed a few of the women of 
their webs and yarn, and a few of the men of their shoes 
and bonnets, they left them no very grave cause to regret 
their visit. 

It so chanced, however, that Mr. Forsyth was brought 
more seriously into contact with the rebels than any of his 
townsmen. The army of the prince, after the failure of 
the attempt on England, fell back on the Highlands ; and 
a body of sixteen hundred king's troops, which had occu- 
pied Inverness, had retreated northwards, on their approach 
into the county of Sutherland. They had crossed by the 
Ferry of Cromarty in the boats of the town's fishermen ; 
and these, on landing on the northern side, they had bro- 
ken up to prevent the pursuit of the rebels. Scarcely had 
they been gone a day, however, when an agent of govern- 



296 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

ment, charged with a large sum of money, the arrears of 
their pay, arrived at Cromarty. He had reached Inverness 
only to find it in possession of the rebels ; and after a per- - 
ilous journey over a tract of country where almost every 
second man had declared for the prince, he found at Cro- 
marty his further progress northward arrested by the 
Frith. In this dilemma, with the sea before him and the 
rebels behind, he applied to William Forsyth, and, commu- 
nicating to him the nature and importance of his charge, 
solicited his assistance and advice. Fortunately Mr. For- 
syth's boat had been on one of her coasting voyages at the 
time the king's troops had broken up the others, and her 
return was now hourly expected. Refreshments were has- 
tily set before the half-exhausted agent ; and then hurry- 
ing him to the feet of the precipices which guard the en- 
trance of the Frith, Mr. Forsyth watched with him among 
the cliffs until the boat came sweeping round the nearer 
headland. The merchant hailed her in the passing, saw 
the agent and his charge safely embarked, and, after in- 
structing the crew that they should proceed northwards, 
keeping as much as possible in the middle of the Frith 
until they had either come abreast of Sutherland or fallen 
in with a sloop-of-war then stationed near the mouth of the 
Spey, he returned home. In the middle of the following 
night he was roused by a party of rebels, who, after inter- 
rogating him strictly regarding the agent and his charge, 
and ransacking his house and shop, carried him with them 
a prisoner to Inverness. They soon found, however, that 
the treasure was irrecoverably beyond their reach, and that 
nothing was to be gained by the further detention of Mr. 
Forsyth. He was liberated, therefore, after a day and 
night's imprisonment, just as the rebels had learned that 
the army of Cumberland had reached the Spey ; and he 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 29T 

returned to Cromarty in time enough to witness from the 
neighboring hill the smoke of Culloden. In after-life he 
used sometimes to amuse his friends by a humorous detail 
of his sufferings in the cause of the king. 



CHAPTER III. 

So spake the Fiend; and with necessity 
The tyrant's plea excused his devilish deeds. 

Milton. 

By far the most important event of the last century to 
the people of Scotland was the rebellion of 1745. To use 
an illustration somewhat the worse for the wear, it resem- 
bled one of those violent hurricanes of the tropics which 
overturn trees and houses and strew the shores with wreck, 
but which more than compensate for the mischiefs they 
occasion by dissipating the deadly vapors of plague and 
pestilence, and restoring the community to health. Previ- 
ous to its suppression the people possessed only a nominal 
freedom. The church for which they had done and suf- 
fered so much had now been re-established among them for 
nearly sixty years ; and they were called, as elders, to take 
a part in its worship, and to deliberate in its courts. The 
laws, too, especially those passed since the union, recog- 
nized them as free. More depends, however, on the ad- 
ministration of law than on even the framing of it. The 
old hereditary jurisdictions still remained entire; and the 
meanest sheriff or baron of Scotland, after holding a court 
composed of only himself and his clerk, might consign the 



208 TALBB AND SKETCHES. 

freest of hiH vassalH tu his dungooii, or liiing Iiiiii up at IiIh 
oiiHtlo-door. But the robollioii hIiowoiI that more iniglit 
1)0 iiivolvod ill this doHpotiHiii of the; cliiofH uud ]»n)|)ri('t()rn 
of tho couiilry llmii iho opprcHHiou o(" iiidividiialH, and 
that thd j)owor which thoy posscsHed, through its iimaiiH 
of calling out tlmir vuhkuIh oii their own l)uhaHi to-day, 
might bi! i!iuj)loyed in procipitating thcni against tho gov- 
orntncnt on tho morrow. In tlio year 1747, thcrofbro, Ijo- 
nuiitary jurisdic'-tions wore abolishtMl all over Scotland, and 
tho power of judging in matters of life and death restricted 
to Judges appointed and paid by tho crown. To decide 
on such matters of minor importance as are i'urnished by 
every locality, juHtic(!S wen; appointi'<l ; and Mr. Forsyth's 
name was placed on tho comniission of the peace; a small 
matter, it may bo thought, in the jjresiuit day, but l)y no 
means an unimportant one ninety years ago, to either his 
townspeople or himself 

Justices of tho peace had been instituted about a century 
and a half before. IJut the hereditary jurisdictions of tlie 
kingdom leaving them scarce any room for the exercise of 
their limited authority, the order fell into desuetude ; and 
previous to its re-appointment, on tlie suppression of tho 
rebellion, tho administration of tho law seems to have 
been divided, in at least the i'('ni«)ter provinces, between 
the hereditary judges and the church. The session rec- 
ords of (Cromarty during the establishment of h]j)iscopacy 
are still extant, and they edriously cxomj)liry tho class of 
offences specially cognizable by tho ecclesiastical courts. 
They serve, too, to illustrate, in a manner sulllciently strik- 
ing, tho low tone of morals which obtained among tho peo- 
])le. Our gr(!at-gr(!at-grand fathers were not a whit wiser 
nor bettor nor happicM- than ourselves ; and our great- 
great-grandraotliers seem to have liad (juite the same pas- 



THE SCOTOir MERCHANT. 209 

fiions as thoir dcsocndants, with rather l(3ss al)i]ity to con- 
trol them, Thore wcro ladies of Cromarty, in tho rcigri of 
Charles II., " inaiHt horrible cussers," who accuHcd one 
another of being " witches and witch getts, with all tlK^ir 
folk af(;re them," for generatioiis untold; gentletnen who 
hiid to "stand at the pilhir" lor unlading the hrmtH of 
a Hiriuggl(;r ;it t(!n o'clock on a Habbath night; " maiHt 
KcaudulouH n!j)n>l>utcH" who got drunk on SundayH, "and 
abuHcd decent folk ganging till the kirk;" and "ill-con- 
ditioned royit loonH who raisit diHturbances and fiiught i' 
the scholarH' loft" in the time of divine Hervice. IIus- 
]>ands and tlioir wives do penance in the church in this 
reign for their domewtlc quarrels ; boys are whipped by the 
beadle for returning from a journey on the Sabbath; men 
are set in the jovf/s for charging elders of rather doul>tful 
character with being drunk ; boatmen are fined for cross- 
ing the ferry with passengers " during church time ; " and 
Presbyterian farmers are fined still more heavily for absent- 
ing themselves from church. Me.mwhile, when the ses- 
sion was thus employed, the sheriff was amusing himself 
in cutting off men's ears, starving them in his dungeon, or 
hanging them up by the neck on his gallows. A iow dark 
traditions, illustrative of the intolerable tyranny of the 
period, still survive ; and it is not yet more than nine years 
since a quantity of human bones, found in digging on an 
eminencse a little above the harbor, which in the reign of 
Charles is said to have been a frequent scene of executions, 
served as an attestation to their general truth. It is said 
that the last person sentenced to death on the gallows-hill 
of Cromarty was a poor Highlander who had insulted the 
slieriff, and that, when in the act of mounting the ladder, 
lie was pardoned at the request of the sheriff's lady. 

There is much of interest in catching occasional glimpses 



300 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

of a bygone state of society through the chance vistas of 
tradition. They serve to show us, in the expressive lan- 
guage of Scripture, " the rock whence we were hewn, and 
the hole of the pit whence we were dug." They serve, 
too, to dissipate those dreamy imaginings of the good and 
happiness of the past in which it seems an instinct of our 
nature to indulge, and enable us to correct the exaggera- 
ted estimates of that school of philosophy which sees most 
to admire in society the further it recedes from civilization. 
I am enabled to furnish the reader with one of these 
chance glimpses. 

An old man who died about ten years ago, has told me 
that, when a boy, he was sent on one occasion to the manse 
of a neighboring parish to bring back the horse of an 
elderly gentleman of the place, a retired officer, who had 
gone to visit the minister with the intention of remaining 
with him for a few days. The officer was a silver-headed, 
erect old man, who had served as an ensign at the battle 
of Blenheim, and who, when he had retired on half pay 
about forty years after, was still a poor lieutenant. His 
riding days were well-nigh over; and the boy overtook 
him long ere he had reached the manse, and just as he was 
joined by Mr. Forsyth, who had come riding up by a cross- 
road, and then slackened bridle to keep him company. 
They entered into conversation. Mr. Forsyth was curious 
in his inquiries, the old gentleman communicative, and the 
boy a good listener. The old man spoke much of the 
allied army under Marlborough. By far the strongest man 
in it, he said, was a gentleman from Ross-shire, Munro of 
Newmore. He had seen him raise a piece of ordnance to 
his breast which Mackenzie of Fairburn, another proprie- 
tor of the same district, had succeeded in raising to his 
knee, but which no other man among more than eighty 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 301 

thousand could lift from off the ground. Newmore was con- 
siderably advanced in life at the time, — perhaps turned of 
fifty ; for he had arrived at mature manhood about the 
middle of the reign of Charles 11. ; and, being a singularly 
daring as well as an immensely powerful man, he had signal- 
ized himself in early life in the feuds of his native district. 
Some of his lands bordered on those of Black Andrew 
Munro, the last Baron of Newtarbat, one of the most de- 
testable wretches that ever abused the power of pit and 
gallows. But as at least their nominal politics were the 
same, and as the baron, though by far the less powerful 
man, was in perhaps a corresponding degree the more 
powerful proprietor, they had never come to an open rup- 
ture. Newmore, however, by venturing at times to screen 
some of the baron's vassals from his fury, — at times by 
taking part against him in the quarrel of some of the petty 
landholders, whom the tyrant never missed an occasion to 
oppress, — was by no means one of his favorites. All the 
labors of the baron's demesnes were of course performed 
by his vassals as part of their proper service. A late, wet 
harvest came on, and they were employed in cutting down 
his crops when their own lay rotting on the ground. It 
is natural that in such circumstances they should have 
labored unwillingly. All their dread of the baron even, 
who remained among them in the fields, indulging in every 
caprice of a fierce and cruel temper, aggravated by irre- 
sponsible power, pi-oved scarcely sufficient to keep them at 
work ; and, to inspire them with deeper terror, an elderly 
female, who had been engaged during the night in reaping 
a little field of her own, and had come somewhat late in 
the morning, was actually stripped naked by the savage, 
and sent home again. In the evening he was visited by 
Munro of Newmore, who came, accompanied by only a 
26 



'302 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

single servant, to expostulate with him on an act so atro- 
cious and disgraceful. Newmore was welcomed with a 
show of hospitality ; the baron heard him patiently, and, 
calling for wine, they sat down and drank together. It 
was only a few weeks before, however, that one of the 
neighboring lairds, who had been treated with a similar 
show of kindness by the baron, had been stripped half 
naked at his table, when in a state of intoxication, and 
sent home with his legs tied under his horse's belly. New- 
more, therefore, kept warily on his guard. He had left his 
horse ready saddled at the gate, and drank no more than 
he could master, which was quite as much, however, as 
would have overcome most men. One after one the 
baron's retainers began to drop into the room, each on a 
separate pretence; and, as the fifth entered, Newmore, who 
had seemed as if yielding to the influence of the liquor, 
afiected to fall asleep. The retainers came clustering 
round him. Two seized him by the arms, and two more 
essayed to fasten him to his chair ; when up he sprang, 
dashed his four assailants from him as if they had been 
boys of ten summers, and, raising the fifth from ofi" the 
floor, hurled him headlong against the baron, who^ll 
prostrate before the weight and momentum of so unimial 
a missile. In a minute after, Newmore had reached the 
gate, and, mounting his horse, rode away. The baron 
died during the night, a victim to apoplexy, induced, it is 
said, by the fierce and vindictive passions awakened on 
this occasion ; and a Gaelic proverb, still cuiTcnt in the 
Highlands of Ross-shire, shows with what feelings his poor 
vassals must have regarded the event. Even to the pres- 
ent day, a Highlander will remark, when overborne by 
oppression, that " the same God still lives who killed 
Black Andrew Munro of Newtarbat." 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 303 



CHAPTER IV. 



Are we not brothers ? 

So man and man should be ; 

But clay and clay differs in dignity. 

Whose dust is both alike. 

Shaksfeab£. 



It was no unimportant change to the people of Cro- 
marty, which transferred them from the jurisdiction of 
hereditary judges to the charge of a justice such as Mr. 
Forsyth. For more than thirty years after his appoint- 
ment he was the only acting magistrate in the place ; and 
such was the confidence of the townspeople in his judg- 
ment and integrity, that during all that time there was not 
in a single instance an appeal from his decisions. In office 
and character he seems to have closely resembled one of 
the old landammans of the Swiss cantons. The age was a 
ri^e one. Man is a fighting animal from very instinct, and 
histSecond nature, custom, mightily improves the propen- 
sity ; and nine tenths of the cases brought before Mr. For- 
syth were cases of quarrels. With the more desperate 
class of brawlers he could deal at times with proper sever- 
ity. In most instances, however, a quarrel cost him a few 
glasses of his best Hollands, and cost no one else anything. 
The disputants were generally shown that neither of them 
had been quite in the right ; that one had been too hasty, 
and the other too ready to take ofience ; that the first blow 
had been decidedly a wrong, and the second unquestion- 
ably a misdemeanor ; and then, after drinking one another's 



304 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

health, they parted, wonderfully pleased with the decision 
of Mr. Forsyth, and resolved to have no more fighting till 
their next diflference. He was much a favorite, too, with 
the townsboys. On one occasion, a party of them were 
brought before him on a charge of stealing green peas out 
of a field. Mr. Forsyth addressed them in his sternest 
manner. There was nothing, he said, which he so abhorred 
as the stealing of green peas ; it was positively theft. He 
even questioned whether their parents did right in provid- 
ing them with pockets. Were they again to be brought 
before him for a similar offence, they might depend, every 
one of them, on being locked up in the Tolbooth for a fort- 
night. Meanwhile, to keej) them honest, he had resolved 
on sowing a field of peas himself, to which he would make 
them all heartily welcome. Accordingly, next season the^ 
field was sown, and there could not be a more exposed 
locality. Such, however, was the spirit of the little men 
of the place, all of whom had come to a perfect under- 
standing of the decision, that not one pod of Mr. Forsyth's 
peas was carried away. 

Before the close of 1752, when he completed his thirtieth 
year, Mr. Forsyth had succeeded in settling his two broth- 
ers in business, the one as a shopkeeper in Dingwall, the 
other as a merchant in Newcastle. Both gained for them- 
selves, in their respective circles of acquaintance, the char- 
acter of worthy and intelligent men ; and their descend- 
ants still occupy respectable places in society. They had 
acquired their education and formed their habits of busi- 
ness under the eye of William ; and now, in the autumn 
of this year, after he had thus honorably acquitted himself 
of the charge devolved upon him by the death of his father, 
he found himself at liberty to gratify an attachment formed 
several years before, by marrying a young lady of great 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 305 

worth and beauty, Miss Margaret Russell, a native of 
Morayshire. She was the daughter of Mr. Russell of 
Earlsmill, chamberlain to the Earl of Moray. 

I shall indulge, with leave of the reader, in a brief view 
of the society to which Mr. Forsyth introduced his young 
wife. The feudal superior of the town, and proprietor of 
the neighboring lands, formed, of course, its natural and 
proper head. But the proprietor of this period, a Captain 
William Urquhart of Meldrum, had thrown himself so 
fairly beyond its pale, that on his own estate, and in his 
own village, there were none to court favor or friendship 
at his hands. He was a gentleman of good family, and had 
done gallant service to the Spaniards of South America 
against the buccaneers. He was, however, a stanch Catho- 
^lic, and he had joined issue with the townspeople, headed 
by Mr. Forsyth, in a vexatious and expensive lawsuit, in 
which he had contended, as patron of the parish, for the 
privilege of presenting them with a useless, time-serving 
clergyman, a friend of his own. And so it was, that the 
zeal, so characteristic at the time of the people of Scotland, 
— a zeal for religion and the interests of the kirk, — had 
more than neutralized in the minds of the townspeople 
their scarcely less characteristic feelings of respect for the 
laird. His place, therefore, in the society of the town was 
occupied by persons of somewhat less influence than him- 
self There was a little circle of gentility in it, rich in 
blood but poor in fortune, which furnished a sort of repos- 
ing place for the old prejudices of the people in favor of 
high descent, of ladies who were " real ladies," and gentle- 
men with coats of arms. Whenever there was aught to 
be done or resisted, however, the whole looked up to Mr. 
Forsyth as their man of thought and action. 
26* 



306 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

At the head of this little community there was a dowa- 
ger lady, the many virtues of whose character have found 
a warm encomiast in the judicious and sober-minded Dod- 
dridge. The good Lady Ardoch has been dead for the 
last seventy years, and yet her name is scarcely less famil- 
iar in the present day, to at least the more staid towns- 
people, than it was half a century ago. She was a daugh- 
ter of the Fowlis family, one of the most ancient and 
honorable in Scotland ; the ninth baron of Fowlis was slain 
fighting under the Bruce at Bannockburn. Her three 
brothers — men whose heroism of character and high relig- 
ious principle have drawn forth the very opposite sympa- 
thies of Philip Doddridge and Sir Walter Scott — she had 
lost in the late rebellion. The eldest, Sir Robert Munro, 
the chief of his clan, died, with his youngest brother, at 
the battle of Falkirk ; the third was shot about nine 
months after by an assassin, who had mistaken him for 
another by whom he had been deeply injured, and whose 
sorrow and remorse on discovering that he had unwittingly 
killed one of the best of his countrymen, are well described 
by Sir Walter in his " Tales of a Grandfather." Next in 
place to the good Lady Ardoch was the good Lady Scots- 
burn, — the widow of a Ross-shire proprietor, — who de- 
rived her descent from that Archibald, Marquis of Argyle, 
who acted so conspicuous a part during the troubles of the 
times of Charles I., and perished on the scaffold on the 
accession of Charles II. In excellence of character and the 
respect with which she was regarded, she very much resem- 
bled her contempoi-ary Lady Ardoch. There were, besides, 
a family of ladies in the place, the daughters of Urquhart of 
Greenhill, a merchant of the times of the herring drove, and 
a scion of the old Urquharts of Cromarty, — and another 
much-respected family, the descendants of one of the old 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 307 

clergymen of the place, a Mr. Gordon. A few ladies more, 
of rather lower pretensions, whom the kindness of relatives 
in the south enabled to be hospitable and genteel, some on 
fifty pounds a year and some on thirty, and a few retired 
halt-jjay ensigns and lieutenants, one of whom, as we have 
seen, had fought in the wars of Marlborough, completed 
what was deemed the better society of the place. They had 
their occasional tea-parties, at which they all met ; for Mr. 
Forsyth's trade with Holland had introduced, ere now, 
about eight teakettles into the place. They had, too, what 
was more characteristic of the age, their regular prayer- 
meetings; and at these — for Christianity, as the equalizing 
religion of free men, has ever been a breaker-down of casts 
and fictitious distinctions — the whole graver people of 
the town met. The parlor of Lady Ardoch was open once 
a fortnight to the poorer inhabitants of the place ; and the 
good lady of thirty descents knelt in her silks at the same 
form with the good fisherwoman in her curch and toy. 

It is not, however, by notices such as these that adequate 
notions of the changes which have taken place within the 
last century in the very framework of Scottish society can 
be conveyed to the reader. " The state of things is so fast 
changing in Scotland," says Dr. Johnson, in one of his let- 
ters to Bos well, " that a Scotchman can hardly realize the 
times of his grandfather." 

Society was in a transition state at the time. The old ad- 
ventitious bonds which had held it together in the past still 
existed ; but opinion was employed in forging others of a 
more natural and less destructible character. Among these 
older ties, the pride of family — a pride wliich must have 
owed its general diflnsion over Scotland to the clans and 
sects of the feudal system — held by far the most impor- 
tant place. There was scarce an individual, in at least the 



308 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

northern counties, whose claim to self-respect was not in- 
volved in the honor of some noble family. There ran 
through his humble genealogy some silver thread of high 
descent; some great-great-grandfather or grandmother con- 
nected him with the aristocracy of the country ; and it 
was his pride and honor, not that he was an independent 
man, but that he was in some sort a dependent gentle- 
man. Hence that assumption of gentility on the part of 
the Scotch so often and so unmercifully lashed by the Eng- 
lish satirists of the last century. Hence, too, in no small 
measure, the entire lack of political whiggism among the 
people. Under the influence of the feelings described, a 
great family might be compared to one of those fig-trees 
of the East which shoot their pendulous branches into the 
soil, and, dei-iving their stability from a thousand separate 
roots, defy the tornado and the hurricane. Be it remem- 
bered, too, that great families included in this way the 
whole of Scottish society, from its upper to its lower ex- 
treme. 

Now, one of the objections to this kind of bond was the 
very unequal measure of justice and protection which it 
secured to the two grand classes which it united. It de- 
pressed the people in the one scale in the proportion in 
which it raised the aristocracy in the other. It did much 
for Juggernaut, but little for Juggernaut's worshippers. 
Though well-nigh as powerful at this time in the north of 
Scotland as it had been at any previous period, it was 
fast losing its influence in the southern districts. The per- 
secutions of the former age had done much to lessen its 
eflScacy, by setting the aristocracy, who, in most instances, 
held by the court politics and the court religion, in direct 
and hostile opposition to the people. And the growing 
commerce of the larger towns had done still more to lower 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 309 

it, by raising up from among the people that independent 
middle class, the creators and conservators of popular lib- 
erty, without which the population of any country can 
consist of only slaves and their masters. Even in the 
northern districts there were causes coming into operation 
which were eventually to annihilate the sentiment in at 
least its more mischievous tendencies. The state of mat- 
ters in the town of Crom&rty at this time, where a zealous 
Catholic was struggling to obtrude a minister of his own 
choosing on a Protestant people, furnishes no bad illustra- 
tion of the nature of some of these, and of their mode of 
working. The absurd and mischievous law of patronage 
was doing in part for the Lowland districts of the north 
what the persecutions of the Stuarts had done for those of 
the south an age before, and what the large sheep-farm 
system, and the consequent ejection of the old occupants 
of the soil, has done for the Highlands an age after. And 
the first two were causes admirably suited to awaken a 
people who had derived their notions of rational liberty 
solely through the medium of religious belief Their 
whiggism was a whiggism not of this world, but of the 
other ; and as the privilege of preparing themselves for 
heaven in what they believed to be exclusively the right 
way was the only privilege they deemed worth while con- 
tending for, their first struggle for liberty was a struggle 
that their consciences might be free. The existence, too, of 
such men among them as Mr, Forsyth, men who had risen 
from their own level, had a twofold influence on the con- 
test. They formed a sort of aristocracy of the people that 
served to divide the old feelings of respect which had 
been so long exclusively.- paid to the higher aristocracy ; 
and they were enabled, through their superior intelligence, 



310 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

to give a weight and respectability to the popular party 
which it could not otherwise have possessed. 

William Forsyth was singularly unfortunate in his mar- 
riage. Towards the close of the first year, when but learn- 
ing fully to appreciate the comforts of a state to which so 
many of the better sentiments of our nature bear reference, 
and to estimate more completely the worth of his partner, 
she was suddenly removed from him by death, at a time 
when he looked with most hope for a further accession to 
his happiness. She died in childbed, and the fruit of her 
womb died with her. Her husband, during the long after- 
course of his life, never forgot her, and for eleven years 
posterior to the event he remained a widower for her sake. 



CHAPTER V. 

There is a certain lively gratitude which not only acquits us of the obli- 
gations we have received, but, by paying what we owe them, makes our 
friends indebted to us. — La Rochefaucauld. 

Among the school-fellows of William Forsyth there was 
a poor orphan boy named Hossack, a native of the land- 
ward part of the parish. He had lost both his parents 
when an infant, an<i owed his first knowledge of letters to 
the charity of the schoolmaster. His nearer relatives were 
all dead, and he was dependent for a precarious subsistence 
on the charity of a few distant connections, not a great 
deal richer than himself; among tlie rest, on a poor widow, 
a namesake of his own, who earned a scanty subsistence by 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 311 

her wheel, but who had heart enough to impart a portion 
of her little to the destitute scholar. The boy was studious 
and thoughtful, and surpassed most of his school-fellows ; 
and, after passing with singular rapidity through the course 
pursued at school, he succeeded in putting himself to col- 
lege. The struggle was arduous and protracted. Some- 
times he wrought as a common laborer, sometimes he ran 
errands, sometimes he taught a school. He deemed no 
honest employment too mean or too laborious, that for- 
warded his scheme ; and thus he at length passed through 
college. His townspeople then lost sight of him for nearly 
twenty years. It was understood, meanwhile, that some 
nameless friend in the south had settled a comfortable an- 
nuity on poor old widow Hossack, and that a Cromarty 
sailor, who had been attacked by a dangerous illness when 
at London, had owed his life to the gratuitous attentions 
of a famous physician of the place, who had recognized 
him as a townsman. No one, however, thought of the 
poor scholar ; and it was not until his carriage drove Tip 
one day through the main street of the town, and stopped 
at the door of William Forsyth, that he was identified with 
"the great doctor" who had attended the seaman, and 
with the benefactor of the poor widow. On entering the 
cottage of the latter, he found her preparing gruel for sup- 
per, and was asked, with the anxiety of a gratitude that 
would fain render him some return, " O, sir, will ye no tak' 
brochan? " He is said to have been a truly excellent and 
benevolent man, — the Abercromby of a former age ; and 
the ingenious and pious Moses Browne (a clergyman who, 
to the disgrace of the English Church, was suffered to lan- 
guish through life in a curacy of fifty pounds per annum) 
thus addresses him in one of his larger poems, written im 



312 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

mediately after the recovery of the author from a long and 
dangerous illness. 

The God I trust, with timeliest kind relief, 

Sent the beloved physician to my aid 

(Generous, humanest, affable of soul. 

Thee, dearest Hossack — oh, long known, long loved, 

Long proved; in oft-found tenderest watching cares. 

The Christian friend, the man of feeling heart) ; 

And in his skilful, heaven-directed hand, 

Put his best pleasing, only fee, my cure. 

Sunday Thoughts, Part IV. 

To this gentleman Mr. Forsyth owed a very useful hint, 
which he did not fail to improve. They were walking to- 
gether at low ebb along the extensive tract of beach which 
skirts, on the south, the entrance of the Frith of Cromarty. 
The shore everywhere in this tract presents a hard bottom 
of boulder stones and rolled pebbles, thickly covered with 
marine plants ; and the doctor remarked that the brown 
^ngled forests before them might be profitably employed 
in the manufacture of kelp, and, at the request of Mr. 
Forsyth, described the process. To the enterprising and 
vigorous-minded merchant the remark served to throw open 
a new field of exertion. He immediately engaged in the 
kelp trade ; and, for more than forty years after, it enabled 
him to employ from ten to twelve persons during the sum- 
mer and autumn of each year, and proved remunerative to 
himself. 

There is a story of two of Mr. Forsyth's kelp-burners, 
which, as it forms a rather curious illustration of some of 
the wilder beliefs of the period, I shall venture on intro- 
ducing to the reader. The Sutors of Cromarty were known 
all over the country as resorts of the hawk, the eagle, and 
the raven, and of all the other builders among dizzy and 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 313 

inaccessible cliffs ; and a gentleman of Moray, a sportsman 
of the old school, having applied to a friend in this part of 
the country to procure for him a pair of young hawks, of a 
species prized by the falconer, Tam Poison, an unsettled, 
eccentric being, remarkable chiefly for his practical jokes, 
and his constant companion Jock Watson, a person of 
nearly similar character, were entrusted with the commis- 
sion, and a promise of five pounds Scots, no inconsiderable 
sum in those days, held out to them as the reward of their 
success in the execution of it. They soon discovered a 
nest, but it was perched near the top of a lofty cliff, inac- 
cessible to the climber ; and there was a serious objection 
against descending to it by means of a rope, seeing that 
the rope could not be held securely by fewer than three or 
four persons, who would naturally claim a share of the re- 
ward. It was suggested, however, by Tam, that by fasten- 
ing the rope to a stake, even one person might prove suf- 
ficient to manage it when the other warped himself down ; 
and so, providing themselves with the stay-rope of one of 
their boats, and the tether-stake of one of their cattle, — 
for, like most of the townsj)eople, they were both boatmen 
and croft-renters, — they set out for the cliff early on a 
Monday morning, ere the other members of the kelp party 
with whom they wrought were astir. The stake was driven 
into the stiff diluvial clay on the summit of the cliff; and 
Tarn's companion, who was the lighter man of the two, 
cautiously creeping to the edge, swung himself over, and 
began to descend ; but, on reaching the end of the stay- 
rope, he found he was still a few feet short of the nest ; 
and, anxious only to secure the birds, he called on his com- 
panion to raise the stake, and fix it a little nearer the brink. 
The stake was accordingly raised ; but the strength of one 

man being insuflScient to hold it on such broken ground, 
27 



814 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

and far less than sufficient to fasten it down as before, Tam, 
in spite of his exertions, staggered step after step towards 
the edge of the precipice. " O Jock ! O Jock ! O Jock ! " 
he exclaimed, straining meanwhile every nerve in an agony 
of exertion, " ye'll be o'er like a pock o' weet fish." " Gae 
a wee bittie down yet," answered the other. "Down! 
down ! deil gae down wi' ye, for I can gae nae further," 
rejoined Tam; and, throwing off the rope, — for he now 
stood on the uttermost brink, — a loud scream, and, after 
a fearful pause of half a minute, a deep hollow sound from 
the bottom told all the rest. " Willawins for poor Jock 
Watson," exclaimed Tam Poison; "win the gude five 
pounds wha like, they'll no be won, it seems, by either him 
or me." 

The party of kelp-burners were proceeding this morning 
to the scene of their labors, through a heavy fog ; and as 
they reached the furnace one by one, they sat down front- 
ing it, to rest them after their walk, and wait the coming 
up of the others. Tam Poison had ali-eady taken his place 
among the rest; and there were but two amissing, the 
man whose dead body now lay at the foot of the cliff, and 
a serious elderly person, one of his neighbors, whose com- 
pany he sometimes courted. At length they were both 
seen as if issuing out of a dense cloud of mist. 

" Yonder they come," said one of the kelp-burners ; 
" but gudesake ! only look hjow little Jock Watson looms 
through the fog as mickle's a giant." 

"Jock Watson ! " exclaimed Poison, starting to his feet, 
and raising his hands to his eyes, with a wild expression 
of bewilderment and terror, "aye, murdered Jock Watson, 
as sure as death ! " 

The figure shrank into the mist as he spoke, and the old 
man was seen approaching alone. 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 315 

" What hae ye done to Jock Watson, Donald? " was the 
eagei- query put to him, on his coming up, by half a dozen 
voices at once. 

" Ask Tarn Poison there," said the old man. " I tapped 
at Jock's window as I passed, and found he had set out wi' 
Tam half an hour afore daybreak." 

" Oh," said Tam, " it was poor murdered Jock Watson's 
ghaist we saw ; it was Jock's ghaist." And so he divulged 
the whole story. 

The British Linen Company had been established in Ed- 
inburgh about the year 1746, chiefly with a view, as the 
name implies, of forwarding the interests of the linen trade; 
and in a few years after, Mr. Forsyth, whose character as 
an active and successful man of business was beginning to 
be appreciated in more than the north of Scotland, was 
chosen as the Company's agent for that extensive tract of 
country which intervenes between the Pentland Frith and 
the Frith of Beauly. The linen trade was better suited at 
this time to the state of the country and the previously- 
acquired habits of the people than any other could have 
been. All the linens worn in Scotland, with the exception, 
perhaps, of some French cambrics, were of home manufac- 
ture. Every female was skilled in spinning, and every 
little hamlet had its weaver, who, if less a master of his 
profession than some of the weavers of our manufacturing 
towns in the present day, was as decidedly superior to our 
provincial weavers. A knowledge of what may be termed 
the higher departments of the craft was spread more equally 
over the country than now ; and, as is always the case be- 
fore the minuter subdivisions of lAbor take place, if less 
could be produced by the trade as a body, the average 
ability ranked higher in individuals. In establishing the 
linen trade, therefore, as the skill essential to carrying it oa 



316 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

already existed, it was but necessary that motives should 
be held out sufficiently powerful to awaken the industry 
of the jjeople ; and these were furnished by Mr. Forsyth, 
in the form of remunerative prices for their labor. The 
town of Cromarty, from its central situation and excellent 
harbor, was chosen as the depot of the establishment. 
The flax was brought in vessels from Holland, prepared 
for the spinners in Cromarty, and then distributed by the 
boats of Mr. Forsyth along the shores of the Friths of Dor- 
noch, Dingwall, and Beauly, and northwards as far as Wick 
and Thurso. At the commencement of the trade the distaff 
and spindle was in extensive use all over the north of Scot- 
land, and the spinning-wheel only partially introduced into 
some of the towns; but the more primitive implement 
was comparatively slow and inefficient, and Mr. Forsyth, 
the more eficctually to supplant it by the better machine, 
made it an express condition with all whom he employed 
for a second year, that at least one wheel should be intro- 
duced into every family. He, besides, hired skilful spin- 
ners to go about the country teaching its use ; and so 
effectual were his measures that, in about ten years after 
the commencement of the trade, the distaff and spindle 
had almost entirely disappeared. There are parts of the 
remote Highlands, however, in which it is still in use ; and 
the writer, when residing in a wild district of western 
Ross, which borders on the Atlantic, has repeatedly seen 
the Highland women, as they passed to and from the shore, 
at once bending under the weight of the creel with which 
they manured their lands, and ceaselessly twirling the 
spindle as it hung beneath the staff. 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 317 



CHAPTER VI. 



The less we know as to things that can be done, the less scepti- 
cal are we as to things that cannot. — Colton. 



About five years after the establishment of the linen 
trade, Mr. Forsyth became a shipowner ; and as he had 
made it a rule never to provide himself from other coun- 
tries with what could be produced by the workmen of his 
own, his first vessel, a tine large sloop, was built at Fort- 
rose. There had been ship-builders established at Cro- 
marty at a much earlier period. Among the designations 
attached to names, which we find in the older records of 
the place, there is none of more frequent occurrence than 
that of ship-carpenter. There are curious stories, too, con- 
nected with ship-launches, which serve to mark the remote 
period at which these must have occurred. An occasion 
of this kind, at a time when the knowledge of mechanics 
was more imperfect and much less general than at present, 
was always one of great uncertainty. Accidents were con- 
tinually occurring ; and superstition found room to mingle 
her mysterious horrors with the doubts and fears with 
which it was naturally attended. Witches and the Evil 
Eye were peculiarly dreaded by the carpenter on the day 
of a launch ; and it is said of one of the early Cromarty 
launches that, the vessel having stopped short in the middle 
of her course, the master-carpenter was so irritated with a 
reputed witch among the spectators, to whom he attributed 
27* 



318 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

the accident, that he threw her down and broke her arm. 
A single anecdote, though of a lighter cast, preserves the 
recollection of Mr. Forsyth's ship-building at Fortrose. 
The vessel was nearly finished ; and a half-witted knave, 
named Tarn Reid, who had the knack of tricking every- 
body, — even himself at times, — was despatched by Mr. 
Forsyth with a bottle of turpentine to the painters. Tarn, 
however, who had never more than heard of wine, and 
who seems to have taken it for granted that the bottle he 
carried contained nothing worse, contrived to drink the 
better half of it by the way, and was drugged almost to 
death for his pains. When afterwards humorously charged 
by Mr. Forsyth with breach of trust, and urged to confess, 
truly, whether he had actually drunk the whole of the 
missing turpentine, he is said to have replied, in great 
wrath, that he " widna gie a'e glass o' whiskey for a' the 
wine i' the warld." 

Mr. Forsyth's vessels were at first employed almost ex- 
clusively in the Dutch trade ; but the commerce of the 
country gradually shifted its old channels, and in his latter 
days they were engaged mostly in trading between the 
north of Scotland and the ports of Leith, London, and 
Newcastle. There are curious traditionary anecdotes of 
his sailors still afloat among the people, which illustrate 
the credulous and imaginative character of the age. Sto- 
ries of this class may be regarded as the fossils of history ; 
they show the nature and place of the formation in which 
they occur. The Scotch sailors of ninety years ago were 
in many respects a very different sort of persons from the 
sailors of the present day. They formed one of the most 
religious classes of the community. There were even found- 
ers of sects among them. The too famous John Gibb was 
a sailor of Borrowstounness ; and the worthy Scotchman 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 319 

who remarked to Peter Walker that " the ill of Scotland 
he found everywhere, but the good of Scotland nowhere 
save at home," was a sailor too. Mr. Forsyth was much 
attached to the seamen of this old and venerable class, and 
a last remnant of them might be found in his vessels when 
they had become extinct everywhere else. On the break- 
ing out of the revolutionary war, his sloop, the Elizabeth, 
was boarded when lying at anchor in one of our Highland 
lochs by a press-gang from a king's vessel, and the crew, 
who chanced to be all under hatches at the time, were 
summoned on deck. First appeared the ancient weather- 
beaten master, a person in his grand climacteric ; then 
came Saunders M'lver, the mate, a man who had twice 
sailed round the world about half a century before ; then 
came decent Thomas Grant, who had been an elder of the 
kirk for more than forty years ; and last of all came old, 
gray-headed Robert Hossack, a still older man than an^ 
of the others. " Good heavens ! " exclaimed the officer 
who commanded the party, " here, lads, are the four sailors 
who manned the ark alive still." I need hardly add, that 
on this occasion he left all her crew to the Elizabeth. 

Some of the stories of Mr. Forsyth's sailors may serve to 
enliven my narrative. The master of the Elizabeth, in one 
of his Dutch voyages, when on the eve of sailing for Scot- 
land, had gone into a tavern with the merchant from whom 
he had purchased his cargo, and was shown by mistake 
into a room in which there lay an old woman ill of a ma- 
lignant fever. The woman regarded him with a long and 
ghastly stare, which haunted him all the evening after; 
and during the night he was seized by the fever. He sent 
for a physician of the place. His vessel was bound for sea 
he said, and the crew would be wholly unable to bring her 
home without him. Had he no medicine potent enough 



320 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

to arrest the progress of the disease for about a week? 
The physician replied in the affirmative, and prescribed 
with apparent confidence. The master quitted his bed on 
the strength of the prescription, and the vessel sailed for 
Cromarty. A storm arose, and there was not a seaman 
aboard who outwrought or outwatched the master. He 
began to droop, however, as the weather moderated, and 
his strength had so failed him on reaching Cromarty, that 
his sailors had to carry him home in a litter. The fever 
had returned, and more than six weeks elapsed after his 
arrival ere he had so far recovered from it as to be able to 
leave his bed. The story is, I believe, strictly true ; but 
in accounting, in the present day, for the main fact which 
it supplies, we would perhaps be inclined to attribute less 
than our fathers did to the skill of the physician, and 
more to the force of imagination and to those invigorating 
e'nergies which a sense of danger awakens. 

Old Saunders M'lver, the mate of the Elizabeth, was one 
of the most devout and excellent men of the place. There 
was in some degree, too, a sort of poetical interest attached 
to him, from the dangers which he had encountered and 
the strange sights which he had seen. He had seen smoke 
and flame bursting out of the sea in the far Pacific, and 
had twice visited those remote parts of the world which 
lie directly under our feet, — a fact which all his townsmen 
credited, for Saunders himself had said it, but which few 
of them could understand. In one of his long voyages, 
the crew with whom he sailed were massacred by some of 
the wild natives of the Indian Archipelago, and he alone 
escaped by secreting himself in the rigging, and from 
thence slipping unobserved into one of the boats, and then 
cutting her loose. But he was furnished with neither oars 
nor sail ; and it was not until he had been tossed at the 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 321 

mercj of the tides and winds of the Indian Ocean for 
nearly a week, that he was at length picked up by a Euro- 
pean vessel. So powerfully was he impressed on this oc- 
casion, that it is said he was never after seen to smile. He 
was a grave and somewhat hard-favored man, powerful in 
bone and muscle even after he had considerably turned his 
sixtieth year, and much respected for his inflexible integ- 
rity and the depth of his religious feelings. Both Saunders 
and his wife — a person of equal worth with himself — were 
especial favorites with Mr. Porteous of Kilmuir, — a min- 
ister of the same class with the Pedens, Renwicks, and 
Cargills of a former age, — and on one occasion, when the 
sacrament was held in his parish, and Saunders was absent 
on one of his Dutch voyages, Mrs. M'lver was an inmate 
of the manse. A tremendous storm burst out in the night- 
time ; and the poor woman lay awake, listening in utter 
terror to the fearful roarings of the wind, as it howled in 
the chimneys and shook the casements and the door. At 
length, when she could lie still no longer, she arose, and, 
creeping along the passage to the door of the minister's 
chamber, " O Mr. Porteous ! " she said, " Mr. Porteous, 
do ye no hear that, and poor Saunders on his way back 
fra Holland ! Oh, rise, rise, and ask the strong help o' your 
Master ! " The minister accordingly rose, and entered his 
closet. The Elizabeth, at this critical moment, was driv- 
ing onwards, through the spray and darkness, along the 
northern shore of the Moray Frith. The fearful skerries 
of Shandwick, where so many gallant vessels have per- 
ished, were close at hand, and the increasing roll of the 
sea showed the gradual shallowing of the water. M'lver 
and his old townsman Robert Hossack stood together at 
the binnacle. An immense wave came rolling behind, and 
they had but barely time to clutch to the nearest hold 



322 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

when it broke over them half-mast high, sweeping spars, 
bulwarks, cordage, all before it in its course. It passed, 
but the vessel rose not. Her deck remained buried in a 
sheet of foam, and she seemed settling down by the head. 
There was a frightful pause. First, however, the bowsprit 
and the beams of the windlass began to emerge ; next the 
forecastle, — the vessel seemed as if shaking herself from 
the load, — and then the whole deck appeared, as she 
went tilting over the next wave. " There are still more 
mercies in store for us," said M'lver, addressing his com- 
panion ; " she floats still." " O Saunders ! Saunders ! " ex- 
claimed Robert, "thei-e was surely some God's soul at 
work for us, or she would never have cowed yon." 

There is a somewhat similar story told of two of Mr. 
Forsyth's boatmen. ' They were brothers, and of a much 
lighter character than Saunders and his companion ; but 
their mother, who was old and bed-ridden, was a person 
of singular piety. They had left her, when setting out on 
one of their Caithness voyages, in so low a state that they 
could scarce entertain any hope of again seeing her in life. 
On their return they were wrecked on the rocky coast of 
Tarbat, and it was with much difiiculty that they suc- 
ceeded in saving their lives. " O brother, lad ! " said the 
one to the other, on reaching the shore, "our poor old 
mither is gone at last, or yon widna have happened us. 
We maun just be learning to pray for ourselves." And 
the inference, says the story, was correct ; for the good old 
woman had died about half an hour before the accident 
occurred. 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 323 



CHAPTER VII. 



Soft as the memory of buried love, 

Pure as the prayer which childhood wafts above, 

Was she'. 

Byron. 



Unmaeeied men of warm affections and social habits 
begin often, after turning their fortieth year, to feel them- 
selves too much alone in the world for happiness, and to 
look forward with more of fear than of desire to a solitary 
and friendless old age. William Forsyth, a man of the 
kindliest feelings, on completing his forty-first year was 
still a widower. His mother had declined into the vale of 
life ; his two brothers had settled down, as has been al- 
ready related, in distant parts of the country. There were 
occasional gaps, too, occurring in the circle in which he 
moved. Disease, decay, and accident kept up the continual 
draught of death ; friends and familiar faces were drop- 
ping away and disappearing ; and he began to find that 
he was growing too solitary for his own peace. The 
wound, however, which his affections had sustained, rather 
more than ten years before, had been gradually closing 
under the softening influence of time. The warmth of his 
affections and the placidity of his temper fitted him in a 
peculiar manner for domestic happiness; and it was his 
great good fortune to meet, about this period, with a lady 
through whom, all unwittingly on her own part, he was 
taught to regard himself as no longer solitary in the 



324 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

present, nor devoid of hope for the future. He was happy 
in his attachment, and early in 1764 she became his wife. 

Miss Elizabeth Grant, daughter of the Rev. Patrick 
Grant of Duthel, in Strathspey, and of Isabella Kerr of 
Ruthven Manse, was born in Duthel in the year 1742, and 
removed to Nigg, in Ross-shire, about twelve years after, 
on the induction of her father into that parish. Her char- 
acter was as little a common one as that of Mr. Forsyth 
himself Seldom indeed does natur.e produce a finer in- 
tellect, never a warmer or more compassionate heart. It 
is rarely that the female mind educates itself The genius 
of the sex is rather fine than robust ; it partakes rather of 
the delicacy of the myrtle than the strength of the oak, 
and care and culture seem essential to its full develop- 
ment. There have been instances, however, though rare, 
of women working their almost unassisted way from the 
lower to the higher levels of intelligence ; and the history 
of this lady, had she devoted her time more to the regis- 
tration of her thoughts than to the duties of her station, 
would have furnished one of these. She was, in the best 
sense of the term, an original thinker ; one of the few whose 
innate vigor of mind carry them in search of truth beyond 
the barriers of the conventional modes of thought. But 
strong good sense, rising almost to the dignity of philoso- 
phy, a lively imagination, and a just and delicate taste, 
united to very extensive knowledge and nice discernment, 
though these rendered her conversation the delight of the 
circle in which she moved, formed but the subordinate 
excellences of her character. She was one of the truly 
good, the friend of her species and of her God. A diary, 
found among her papers after her death, and now in the 
possession of her friends, shows that the transcript of duty 
which her life afforded was carefully collated every day 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 825 

with the perfect copy with which Revelation supplied her, 
and her every thought, word, and action, laid open to the 
eye of Omniscience. In the expressive language of Scrip- 
ture, she was one of those " who walk with God." There 
was nought, however, of harshness or austerity in her 
religion. It formed the graceful 'and appropriate garb of a 
tender-hearted and beautiful woman of engaging manners 
and high talent. With this lady Mr. Forsyth enjoyed all 
of good and happiness that the married state can afford, 
for the long period of thirty-six years. 

His life was a busy one ; his very j^leasures were all of 
the active kind; and yet, notwithstanding his numerous 
engagements, it was remarked that there were few men 
who contrived to find more spai-e time than Mr. Forsyth, 
or who could devote half a day more readily to the service 
of a friend or neighbor. But his leisure hours were hardly 
and fairly earned. He rose regularly, winter and summer, 
between five and six o'clock, lighted his office-fire, if the 
weather was cold, wrote out his letters for the day, and 
brought up his books to the latest period. Ere the family 
was summoned to breakfast he was generally well nigh the 
conclusion of his mercantile labors. The family then 
met for morning prayer ; for, like the Cotter in Burns, 
Mr. Forsyth was the priest of his household, and led in 
their devotions morning and evening. An hour or two 
more spent in his office set him free for the remainder of 
the day from labor on his own behalf; the rest he devoted 
to the good of others and his own amusement, Once a 
month he held a regular Justice of Peace Court, in which 
he was occasionally assisted by some of the neighboring 
proprietors, whose names, like his own, were on the com- 
mission of the peace. But the age was a rude one ; and 
differences were so frequently occurring among the people 
28 



826 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

that there were few days in which his time was not occu- 
pied from twelve till two in his honored capacity of 
peace-maker for the place. The evening was more his own. 
Sometimes he superintended the lading or unlading of his 
vessels ; sometimes he walked out into the country to visit 
his humble friends in the landward part of the parish, and 
see how they were getting on with their spinning. There 
was not a good old man or woman within six miles of Cro- 
marty, however depi-essed by poverty, that Mr. Forsyth 
did not reckon among the number of his acquaintance. 

Of all his humble friends, however, one of the most re- 
spected, and most frequently visited by him, was a pious, 
though somewhat eccentric, old woman, who lived all 
alone in a little solitary cottage beside the sea, rather more 
than two miles to the west of the town, and who was 
known to the people of the place as Meggie o' the Shore. 
Meggie was one of the truly excellent, — a person in whom 
the Durhams and Rutherfords of a former age would have 
delighted. There was no doubt somewhat of harshness 
in her opinions, and of credulity in her beliefs ; bitt never 
were there opinions or beliefs more conscientiously held ; 
and the general benevolence of her disposition served won- 
derfully to soften in practice all her theoretical asperities. 
She was ailing and poor; and as she was advancing in 
years, and her health became more broken, her little earn- 
ings — for she was one of Mr. Forsyth's spinners — Avere 
still growing less. Meggie, however, had " come of decent 
people," though their heads had all been laid low in the 
churchyard long ere now ; and though she was by far too 
orthodox to believe, with the son of Sirach, that it " is 
better to die than to beg," it was not a thing to be thought 
of that she should do dishonor to the memory of the 
departed by owing a single meal to the charity of the 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 327 

parish. She toiled on, therefore, as she best could, content 
with the merest pittance, and complained to no one. Mr. 
Forsyth, who thoroughly understood the character, and 
appreciated its value, and who knew, withal, how wretch- 
edly inadequate Meggie's earnings were to her support, 
contrived on one occasion to visit her early, and to stay 
late, in the hope of being invited to eat with her ; for 
in her more prosperous days there were few of her vis- 
itors suffered to leave her cottage until, as she herself 
used to express it, they had first broken bread. At this 
time, however, there was no sign of the expected invita- 
tion ; and it was not until Mr. Forsyth had at length risen 
to come away that Meggie asked him hesitatingly whether 
he would " no tak' some refreshment afore he went ?" 

"I have just been waiting to say yes," said the mer- 
chant, sitting down again. Meggie placed before him a 
half-cake of barley-bread and a jug of water. 

" It was the feast of the promise," she said ; " ' thy bread 
shall be given thee, and thy water shall be sure.' " 

The merchant saw that, in her effort to be hospitable, 
she had exhausted her larder ; and, without remarking that 
the portion was rather a scanty one, partook with appar- 
ent relish of his share of the hall-cake. But he took 
especial care from that time forward till the death of Meg- 
gie, which did not take place till about eight years after, 
that her feasts should not be so barely and literally feasts 
of the promise. 

Mr. Forsyth, in the midst of his numerous engagements, 
found leisure for a few days every year to visit his rela- 
tives in Moray. The family of his paternal grandfather, 
a farmer of Elginshire, had been a numei'ous one ; and he 
had an uncle settled in Elgin as a merchant and general 
dealer who was not a great many years older than him- 



328 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

self. For the judgment of this gentleman Mr. Forsyth 
entertained the highest respect, and he rarely engaged in 
any new undertaking without first consulting him. In- 
deed, a general massiveness of intellect and force of 
character seemed characteristic of the family, and these 
qualities the well-known work of this gentleman's son, 
" Forsyth's Italy," serves happily to illustrate. There is 
perhaps no book of travels in the language in which the 
thoughts lie so closely, or in the perusal of which the 
reader, after running over the first few chapters, gives 
himself up so entirely to the judgment of the author. The 
work is now in its fourth edition ; and a biographical me- 
moir of the writer, appended to it by his younger brother, 
Mr. Isaac Forsyth of Elgin, shows how well and pleasingly 
the latter gentleman could have written had he employed 
in literature those talents which have rendered him, like 
his father and his cousin, eminently successful in business. 
When on one of his yeai-ly visits, Mr. Forsyth inquired 
of his uncle whether he could not point out to him, among 
his juvenile acquaintance in Elgin, some steady young lad, 
of good parts, whom he might engage as an assistant in 
his business at Cromarty. Its more mechanical details, 
he said, were such as he himself could perhaps easily 
master ; but then, occupying his time as they did, without 
employing his mind, they formed a sort of drudgery of 
the profession, for which he thought it might prove in the 
end a j^iece of economy to pay. His uncle acquiesced in 
the remark, and recommended to his notice an ingenious 
young lad who had just left school, after distinguishing 
himself by his attainments as a scholar, and who was now 
living unemployed with some friends at Elgin. The lad 
was accordingly introduced to Mr. Forsyth, who was 
much pleased with his appearance and the simple ingenu- 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 329 

ousness of his manners, and on his return he brought him 
with him to Cromarty. 

Charles Grant, for so the young man was called, soon 
became much a favorite with Mr. Forsyth and his family, 
and was treated by them rather as a son than a dependant. 
He had a taste for reading, and Mr. Forsyth furnished him 
with books. He introduced him, too, to all his more in- 
telligent and more influential friends, and was alike liberal 
in assisting him, as the case chanced to require, with his 
purse and his advice. The young man proved himself em- 
inently worthy of the kindness he received. He possessed 
a mind singularly well balanced in all its faculties, moral 
and intellectual. He added great quickness to great perse- 
verance ; much warmth and kindliness of feeling to an un- 
yielding rectitude of principle ; and strong good sense to 
the poetical temperament. He remained with Mr. Forsyth 
for about five years, and then parted from him for some 
better appointment in London, which he owed to his 
friendship. It would be no unprofitable or uninteresting 
task to trace his after course ; but the outlines of his his- 
tory are already known to most of my readers. His ex- 
tensive knowledge and very superior talents rendered his 
services eminently useful; his known integrity procured 
him respect and confidence ; the goodness of his disposition 
endeared him to an extensive and ever-widening cii-cle 
of friends. He rose gradually through a series of employ- 
ments, each, in progi'ession, more important and honorable 
than the one which had preceded it. He filled for many 
years the chair of the honorable East India Company's 
Court of Directors, and represented the county of Inver- 
ness in several successive parliaments ; and of two of his 
sons, one has had the dignity of knighthood conferred 
upon him fop his public services, and the other occupies aq 
28* 



330 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

honorable, because well-earned, place among the British 
peerage. Mr. Grant continued through life to cherish the 
memory of his benefactor, and to show even in old age 
the most marked and assiduous attentions to the surviving 
members of his family. He procured writerships for two 
of his sons, John and Patrick Forsyth; and, at a time 
when his acquaintance extended over all the greater mer- 
chants of Europe, he used to speak of him as a man whose 
judgment and probity, joined to his singularly liberal views 
and truly generous sentiments, would have conferred honor 
on the magisterial chair of the first commercial city of 
the world. It was when residing in the family of Wil- 
liam Forsyth that Mr. Grant first received those serious 
impressions of the vital importance of religion which so 
influenced his conduct through life, and to which he is 
said to have given expression, when on the verge of 
another world, in one of the finest hymns in the language. 
Need I apologize to the reader for introducing it here ? 



HYMN. 

With years oppressed, with sorrows worn. 
Dejected, harassed, sick, forlorn. 

To thee, God! I pray; 
To thee these withered hands arise; 
To thee I lift these failing eyes; — 

Oh, cast me not away. 



Thy mercy heard my infant prayer; 
Thy love, with all a mother's care, 

Sustained my childish days; 
Thy goodness watched my ripening youth, 
And formed my soul to love thy truth, 

And filled my heart with praise. 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 331 

0! Saviour, has thy grace declined? 
Can years affect the Eternal Mind, 

Or time its love decay ? 
A thousand ages pass thy sight, 
And all their long and weary flight 

Is gone like yesterday. 

Then, even in age and grief, thy name 
Shall still my languid heart inflame. 

And bow my faltering knee. 
O, yet this bosom feels the fire. 
This trembling hand and drooping lyre 

Have yet a strain for thee. 

Yes, broken, tuneless, still, Lord ! 
This voice, transported, shall record 

Thy bounty, tried so long; 
Till, sinking slow, with calm decay. 
Its feeble murmurs melt away 

Into seraphic song. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Good is no good but if it be spend ; 
God giveth good for none other end. 

Spensek. 

The year 1772 was a highly importip,nt one to the people 
of Cromarty. By far the greater part of the parish is oc- 
cupied by one large and very valuable property, which, 
after remaining in the possession of one family for nearly 
a thousand years, had passed in little more than a century 
through a full half-dozen. It was purchased in the latter 



332 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

part of this year by George Ross, a native of Ross-shire, 
who had realized an immense fortune in England as an 
army agent. He was one of those benefactors of the 
species who can sow liberally in the hope of a late harvest 
for others to reap ; and the townspeople, even the poorest 
and least active, were soon made to see that they had got 
a neighbor who would suffer them to be idle or wretched 
no longer. 

He found in "William Forsyth a man after his own heart ; 
one with whom to concert and advise, and who entered 
warmly into all his well-laid schemes for awakening the 
energies and developing the yet untried resources of the 
country. The people seemed moi*e than half asleep around 
them. The mechanic spent well-nigh two thirds of his 
time in catching fish and cultivating his little croft ; the 
farmer raised from his shapeless party-colored patches, of 
an acre or two apiece, the same sort of half-crops that had 
satisfied his grandfather. The only trade in the country 
was originated and carried on by Mr. Forsyth, and its only 
manufacture the linen one which he superintended. In 
this state of things, it was the part assigned to himself 
by the benevolent and patriotic Agent, now turned of 
seventy, to revolutionize and give a new spirit to the 
whole ; and such was his untiring zeal and statesman-like 
sagacity that he fully succeeded. 

One of his first gifts to the place was a large and commo- 
dious pier for the accommodation of trading vessels. He 
then built an extensive brewery, partly with the view to 
check the trade in smuggling, which prevailed at this time 
in the north of Scotland to an enormous extent, and partly 
to open a new market to the farmers for the staple grain of 
the country. The project succeeded ; and the Agent's ex- 
cellent ale supplanted in no small measure, from Aberdeen 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 333 

to John O'Groat's, the gins and brandies of the Continent. 
He then established a hempen manufactory, which has 
ever since employed about two hundred people within its 
walls, and fully twice that number without ; and set on 
foot a trade in pork, which has paid the rents of half the 
widows' cottages in the country for the last forty years, 
and is still carried on by the traders of the place to an ex- 
tent of from fifteen to twenty thousand pounds annually. 
He established a nail and spade manufactory ; brought 
women from England to instruct the young girls in the art 
of working lace; provided houses for the poor; presented 
the town with a neat, substantial building, the upper part 
of which serves as a council-room, and the lower as a prison ; 
and built for the accommodation of the poor Highlanders, 
who came thronging into the town to work on his lands or 
in his manufactories, a handsome Gaelic chapel. He set 
himself, too, to initiate his tenantry in the art of rearing 
wheat ; and finding them wofully unwilling to become 
wiser on the subject, he tried the force of example, by tak- 
ing an extensive farm under his own management, and 
conducting it on the most approved principles of modern 
agriculture. It is truly wonderful how much may be 
effected by the well-directed energies of one benevolent 
and vigorous mmd. It is to individuals, not masses, that 
the species owe their advancement in the scale of civiliza- 
tion and rationality. George Ross was a man far advanced 
in life when he purchased the lands of Cromarty, and he 
held them for but fourteen years, for he died in 1786, at 
the great age of eighty-five ; and yet in these few years, 
which might be regarded as but the fag-end of a busy life, 
he did more for the north of Scotland than had been ac- 
complished by all its other proprietors put together since 
the death of President Forbes. 



334 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

Mr. Forsyth was ever ready to second the benevolent 
and well-laid schemes of the Agent. He purchased shares 
in his hempen manufactory, — for Mr. Ross, the more 
widely to extend its interests, had organized a company to 
carry it on — and took a fine snug farm in the neighborhood 
of the town into his own hands, to put into practice all he 
had learned of the new system of farming. Agriculture 
was decidedly one of the most interesting studies of the 
period. It was still a field of experiment and discovery ; 
new principles, little dreamed of by our ancestors, were 
elicited every year ; and though there were hundreds of 
intelligent minds busy in exploring it, much remained a 
sort of terra incognita notwithstanding. Mr. Forsyth 
soon became a zealous and successful farmer, and spent 
nearly as much of his evenings in his fields as he did of his 
mornings in his counting-house. The fai'mers around him 
were wedded to their old prejudices, but the merchant 
had nothing to unlearn ; and though his neighbors smiled 
at first to see him rearing green croj^s of comparatively 
little value from lands for which he paid a high rent, or, 
more inexplicable still, paying the rent and suffering the 
lands to lie fallow, they could not avoid being convinced 
at last that he was actually raising more corn than any 
of themselves. Though essentially a practical man, and 
singularly sober and judicious in all his enterprises, his 
theoretical speculations were frequently of a bolder char- 
acter ; and he had delighted in reasoning on the causes 
of the various phenomena with which his new study pre- 
sented him. The exhaustive properties of some kinds 
of crop ; the restorative qualities of others ; the mys- 
teries of the vegetative pabulum ; its well-marked distinct- 
ness from the soil which contains it ; how, after one variety 
of grain has appropriated its proper nourishment, and then 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 335 

languished for lack of sustenance, another variety continues 
to draw its food from the same tract, and after that, per- 
haps, yet another variety more ; how, at length, the pro- 
ductive matter is so exhausted that all is barrenness, until, 
after the lapse of years, it is found to have accumulated 
again, — all these, with the other mysteries of vegetation, 
furnished him with interesting subjects of thought and 
inquiry. One of the best and largest of his fields was situ- 
ated on the edge of that extensive tract of table-land which 
rises immediately above the town, and commands so pleas- 
ing a prospect of the bay and the opposite shore ; and from 
time immemorial the footpath which skirts its lower edge, 
and overlooks the sea, had been a favorite promenade of 
the inhabitants. What, however, was merely a footpath in 
the early part of each season, grew broad enough for a car- 
riage-road before autumn ; and much of Mr. Forsyth's best 
braird was trampled down and destroyed every year. His 
ploughman would fain have excluded the walkers, and 
hinted at the various uses of traps and spring-guns ; at any 
rate, he said, he was determined to build up the slap ; but 
the merchant, though he commended his zeal, negatived 
the proposal; and so the s/«jc>_was suffered to remain un- 
built. On sometimes meeting with parties of the more 
juvenile saunterers, he has gravely cautioned them to avoid 
his ploughman Donald M'Candie. Donald, he would say, 
was a cross-grained old man, as they all knew, and might 
both frighten them and hurt himself in running after them. 
Mr. Forsyth retained the farm until his death ; and it 
shows in some little degree the estimation in which he was 
held by the people, that his largest field, though it has 
repeatedly changed its tenant since then, still retains the 
name of Mr. Forsyth's Park. 

Shortly after he had engaged with the farm, Mr. For- 



336 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

syth built for himself a neat and very commodious house, 
which, at the time of its erection, was beyond comparison 
the best in the place, and planted a large and very fine 
garden. Both serve to show how completely this mer- 
chant of the eighteenth century had anticipated the im- 
provements of the nineteenth. There are not loftier nor 
better-proportioned rooms in the place, larger windows, nor 
easier stairs ; and his garden is such a one as would satisfy 
an Englishman of the present day. These are perhaps but 
little matters. They serve, however, to show the taste and 
judgment of the man. 



CHAPTER IX. 

'Tis not that rural sports alone invite, 
But all the grateful country breathes delight ; 
Here blooming Health exerts her gentle reign, 
And strings the sinews of the industrious swain. 

Gat. 

I AM not of opinion that the people of the north of Scot- 
land are less happy in the present age than in the age or 
two which immediately preceded it ; but I am certain they 
are not half so merry. We may not have less to amuse us 
than our fathers had ; but our amusements somehow seem 
less hearty, and are a great deal less noisy, and, instead of 
interesting the entire community, are confined to insulated 
parties and single individuals. A whole hecatcomb of wild 
games have been sacrificed to the genius of trade and the 
wars of the French Revolution. The age of holidays is 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 337 

clean gone by ; the practical joke has been extinct for the 
last fifty years ; and we have to smuggle the much amuse- 
ment which we still contrive to elicit from out the eccen- 
tricities of our neighbors, as secretly as if it were the 
subject of a tax. 

In the early and more active days of Mr. Forsyth, the 
national and manly exercise of golf was the favorite amuse- 
ment of the gentlemen ; and Cromarty, whose links fur- 
nished a fitting scene for the sport, was the meeting-place 
of one of the most respectable golf-clubs in the country. 
Sir Charles Ross of Balnagown, Sheriff M'Leod of Geanis, 
Mr. Forsyth and the Lairds of Newhall, Pointzfield, and 
Braelanguil were among its members. Both the sheriff 
and Sir Charles were very powerful men, and good players. 
It was remarked, however, that neither of them dealt a more 
skilful or more vigorous blow than Mr. Forsyth, %hose 
frame, though not much above the middle size, was sin- 
gularly compact and muscular. He excelled, too, in his 
younger days, in all the other athletic games of the coun- 
try. Few men threw a longer bowl, or pitched the stone 
or the bar further beyond the ordinary bound. Every 
meeting of the golf-players cost him a dinner and a dozen 
or two of his best wine ; for, invariably, when they had 
finished their sport for the day, they adjourned to his hos- 
pitable board, and the evening passed in mirth and jollity. 
Some of the anecdotes which furnished part of their laugh- 
ter on these occasions still survive ; and, with the assistance 
of the wine, they must have served the purpose wonderfully 
well. All the various casks and boxes used by Mr. For- 
syth in his trade were marked with his initials W. F., that 
he might be the better able to identify them. They were 
sometimes suffered so to accumulate in the outhouses of 
the neighboring proprietors, that they met the eye at every 
29 



338 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

turning ; and at no place was this more the case than at 
Pointzfielcl. On one occasion a swarm of Mr. Forsyth's 
bees took flight in the same direction. They flew due west 
along the shore, followed by a servant, and turned to the 
south at the Pointzfield woods, where the pursuer lost 
sight of them. In about half an hour after, however, a 
swarm of bees were discovered in the proprietor's garden, 
and the servant came to claim them in the name of his 
master. 

" On what pretence ? " demanded the proprietor. 

" Simply," said the man, " because my master lost a 
swarm to-day, which I continued to follow to the begin- 
ning of the avenue yonder; and these cannot be other 
than his." 

" Nonsense," replied the proprietor. " Had they belonged 
to yoi\r master they would have been marked by the W. F., 
every one of them." 

Eventually, however, Mr. Forsyth got his bees; but 
there were few golf-meetings at which the story was not 
cited against him by way of proof that there were occa- 
sions when even he, with all his characteristic forethought, 
could be as careless as other men. 

It was chiefly in his capacity of magistrate, however, 
that Mr. Forsyth was brought acquainted with the wilder 
humors of the place. Some of the best jokes of the towns- 
men were exceedingly akin to felonies ; and as the injured 
persons were in every case all the angrier for being laughed 
at, they generally applied for redress to their magistrate. 
There is a transition stage in society, — a stnge between 
barbarism and civilization, — in which, through one of the 
unerring instincts of our nature, men employ their sense of 
the ludicrous in laughing one another into propriety ; and 
such was the stage at which society had arrived in the 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 339 

north of Scotland in at least the earlier part of Mr. For- 
syth's career. Cromarty was, in consequence, a merry little 
place, though the merriment was much on the one side, and 
of a wofully seljfish character. The young, like those hunt- 
ing parties of Norway that band together for the purpose 
of ridding their forests of the bears, used in the long winter 
evenings to go prowling about the streets in quest of some- 
thing that might be teased and laughed at ; the old, though 
less active in the pursuit, — for they kept to their houses, 
— resembled -the huntsmen of the same country who lie in 
wait for the passing animal on the tops of trees. Their 
passion for the ludicrous more than rivalled the Athenian 
rage for the new ; and while each one laughed at his neigh- 
bor, he took all care to avoid being laughed at in turn. 

The poor fishermen of the place, from circumstances con- 
nected with their profession, were several degrees lower in 
the scale of civilization than most of their neighbors. The 
heiTing-fishery had not yet taught them to speculate, nor 
were there Sabbath schools to impart to them the elements 
of learning and good manners ; and though there might 
be, perhaps, one of fifty among them possessed of a smat- 
tei'ing of Latin, it was well if a tithe of the remaining 
forty-nine had learned to read. They were, however, a 
simple, inoflfensive race of people, whose quarrels, like their 
marriages — for they quarrelled often, though at a small 
expense — were restricted to their own class, and who, 
though perhaps little acquainted with the higher standards 
of tight, had a code of foolish superstitions, which, strange 
as it may seem, served almost the same end. They re- 
spected an oath, in the belief that no one had ever per- 
jured himself and thriven ; regarded the murderer as ex- 
posed to the terrible visitations of his victim, and the thief 
as a person doomed to a down look ; reverenced the Bible 



340 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

as a protection from witchcraft, and baptism as a charm 
against the fairies. Their simplicity, their ignorance, their 
superstition, laid them open to a thousand petty annoy- 
ances from the wags of the town. They had a belief, long 
since extinct, that if, when setting out for the fishing, one 
should interrogate them regarding their voyage, there was 
little chance of their getting on with it without meeting 
with some disaster ; and it was a common trick with the 
youngsters to run down to the water's edge, just as they 
were betaking themselves to their oars, and shout out, 
" Men, men, where are you going ? " They used, too, to 
hover about their houses after dark, and play all manner of 
tricks, such as blocking up their chimney with turf and 
stealthily filling their water-stoups with salt-water just as 
they were about setting on their hrochan. One of the best 
jokes of the period seems almost too good to be forgotten. 
The fairies were in ill repute at the time, and long be- 
fore, for an ill practice of kidnapping children and annoy- 
ing women in the straw ; and no class of people could 
dread them more than fishers. But they were at length 
cured of their terrors by being laughed at. One evening, 
when all the men were setting out for sea, and all the wo- 
men engaged at the water's edge in handing them their 
tackle or launching their boats, a party of young fellows, 
who had watched the opportunity, stole into their cottages, 
and, disfurnishing the cradles of all their little tenants, 
transposed the children of the entire village, leaving a cliild 
in the cradle of every mother, but taking care that it shoOld 
not be her own child. They then hid themselves, amid the 
ruins of a deserted hovel, to wait the result. Up came the 
women from the shore ; and, alarmed by the crying of the 
children and the strangeness of their voices, they went 
to their cradles and found a changeling in each. The 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 341 

scene that followed baffles description. They shrieked and 
screamed and clapped their hands ; and, rushing out to 
the lanes like so many mad creatures, were only unhinged 
the more to find the calamity so universal. Down came the 
women of the place, to make inquiries and give advices ; 
some recommending them to have recourse to the minis- 
ter, some to procure baskets and suspend the changelings 
over the fire, — some one thing, some another ; but the 
poor mothers were regardless of them all. They tossed 
their arms and shrieked and hallooed ; and the children, 
who were well-nigh as ill at ease as themselves, added, by 
their cries, to the confusion and the uproar, A thought 
struck one of the townswomen. " I suspect, neighbors," 
she said, " that the loons are at the bottom of this. Let's 
bring all the little ones into one place, and see whether 
every mother cannot find her own among them." No 
sooner said than done ; and peace was restored in a few 
minutes. Mischievous as the trick was, it had this one 
eflTect, that the fairies were in less repute in Cromarty ever 
after, and were never more charged with the stealing of 
children. A popular belief is in no small danger when 
those who cherished learn to laugh at it, be the laugh 
raised as it may. 

29* 



342 TALES AND SKETCHES. 



CHAPTER X. 



Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil and trim their evening fire ; 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair. 

Goldsmith. 



There were two classes of men who had no particular 
cause of gratitude to Mr. Forsyth. Lawyers, notwithstand- 
ing his respect for the profession, he contrived to exclude 
from the place, for no case of dispute or difference ever 
passed himself, nor was there ever an appeal from his 
decisions ; and' inn-keepers found themselves both robbed 
of their guests by his hospitality, and in danger of losing 
their licenses for the slightest irregularity that affected the 
morals of their neighbors. For at least the last twenty 
years 'of his life, his house, from the number of guests which 
his hospitality had drawn to it, often resembled a crowded 
inn. Did he meet with a young man of promising talent, 
however poor, who belonged in any degree to the aristoc- 
racy of nature, and bade fair to rise above his present level, 
he was sure of being invited to his table. Did he come in 
contact with some unfortunate aspirant who had seen bet- 
ter days, but who in his fall had preserved his character, he 
was certain of being invited too. "Was there a wind-bound 
vessel in the port, Mr. Forsyth was sure to bring the pas- 
sengers home with him. Had travellers come to visit the 
place, Mr. Forsyth could best tell them all what desei'ved 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 343 

their notice ; and nowhere could he tell it half so well as at 
his own table. Never was there a man who, through the 
mere indulgence of the kindlier feelings of our nature, con- 
trived to make himself more friends. The chance visitor 
spent perhaps a single day under his roof, and never after 
ceased to esteem the good and benevolent owner. His 
benevolence, like that of John of Calais in the old romance, 
extended to even the bodies of the dead ; an interesting 
instance of which I am enabled to present to the reader. 

Some time in the summer of 1773 or 1774, a pleasure- 
yacht, the property of that Lord Byron who immediately 
preceded the poet, cast anchor in the bay of Cromarty, 
having, according to report, a dying lady on board. A 
salmon-fisher of the place, named Hossack, a man of singu- 
lar daring and immense personal strength, rowed his little 
skiff alongside in the course of the day, bringing with him 
two fine salmon for sale. The crew, however, seemed wild 
and reckless as that of a privateer or pirate ; and he had no 
sooner touched the side, than a fellow who stood in the 
gangway dealt his light skiff so heavy a blow with a boat- 
hook that he split one of the planks. Hossack seized hold 
of the pole, wrenched it out of the fellow's grasp, and was 
in the act of raising it to strike him down, when the master 
of the yacht, a native of Orkney, came running to the gun- 
wale, and, apologizing for the offered violence, invited the 
fisherman aboard. He accordingly climbed the vessel's 
side, and disposed of his fish. 

Lord Byron, a good-looking man, but rather shabbily 
dressed, was pacing the quarter-deck. Two proprietors of 
the country, who had known him in eai-ly life, and had come 
aboard to pay him their respects, were seated on chairs near 
the stern. But the party seemed an unsocial one. His lord- 
ship continued to pace the deck, regarding his visitors from 



344 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

time to time with an expression singularly repulsive, while 
the latter had the hlank look of men who, expecting a kind 
reception, are chilled by one freezingly cold. The fisher- 
man was told by the master, by way of explanation, that 
his lordship, who had been when at the soundest a re- 
served man, of very eccentric habits, was now unsettled in 
mind, and had been so from the time he had killed a gen- 
tleman in a duel ; and that his madness seemed to be of a 
kind which, instead of changing, deepens the shades of the 
natural character. He was informed further, that the sick 
lady, a Miss Mudie, had expired that morning ; that she 
was no connection whatever of his lordship, but was 
merely an acquaintance of the master's, and a native of 
Orkney, who, having gone to Inverness for the benefit of 
her health, and becoming worse, had taken the opportunity, 
in the absence of any more eligible conveyance, of return- 
ing by Lord Byron's yacht. The master, who seemed to be 
a plain, warm-hearted sailor, expressed much solicitude re- 
garding the body. The unfortunate lady had been most 
respectable herself and most respectably connected, and 
was anxious that the funeral should be of a kind befitting 
her character and station ; but then, he had scarce any- 
thing in his own power, and his lordship would listen to 
nothing on the subject. "Ah," replied Hossack, "but I 
know a gentleman who would listen to you, and do some- 
thing more. I shall go ashore this moment, and tell Mr. 
Forsyth." 

The fisherman did so, and found he had calculated aright. 
Mr. Forsyth sent townswomen aboard to dress the corpse, 
who used to astonish the children of the place for years 
after by their descriptions of the cabin in which it lay. 
The days of steamboats had not yet come on, to render 
such things familiar; and the idea of a room panelled with 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. > 345 

mirrors, and embossed with flowers of gold, was well suited 
to fill the young imagination. The body was taken ashore ; 
and, contrary to one of the best established canons of super- 
stition, was brought to the house of Mr. Forsyth, from 
which, on the following day, when he had invited inhab- 
tants of the place to attend the funeral, it was carried to 
his own burying-ground, and thei'e interred. And such 
was the beginning of a friendship between the benevolent 
merchant and the relatives of the deceased which termina- 
ted only with the life of the former. Two of his visitors, 
during the summer of 1795, were a Major and Mi's. Mudie 
from Orkney. 

I may mention, in the passing, a somewhat curious 
circumstance connected with Lord Byron's yacht. She 
actually sat deep in the water at the time with a cargo of 
contraband goods, most of which were afterwards unloaded 
near Sinclair's Bay, in Caithness. Hossack, ere he parted 
from the master, closed a bargain with him for a consider- 
able quantity of Hollands, and, on being brought astern to 
the vessel's peak on the evening she sailed from Cromarty, 
he found the place filled with kegs, bound together by 
pairs, and heavy weights attached to facilitate their sink- 
ing, in the event of theii- being thrown overboard. It is a 
curious, but, I believe, .well-authenticated fact, that one of 
the most successful smuggling vessels of the period, on at 
least the eastern coast of Scotland, was a revenue-cutter 
provided by government for the suppression of the trade. 

Besides the chance visitors entertained at the hospitable 
board of the merchant, there were parties of his friends 
and relatives who spent, almost every summer, a few 
weeks in his family. The two daughters of his brother, 
who had removed to England so loug before, with the son 
and daughter of the other brother, who had settled in 



346 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

Dingwall ; the brother of his first wife, a Major Russell, 
with the brother and sisters of his second ; his relatives 
from Elgin ; a nephew who had married into a family of 
rank in England, and some of his English partners in the 
hempen manufactory, were among the number of his an- 
nual visitors. His parties were often such as the most 
fastidious would have deemed it an honor to have been 
permitted to join. He has repeatedly entertained at his 
table his old townsman Duncan Davidson, member of 
Parliament at the time for the shire of Cromarty, the late 
Lord Seaforth, Sir James Mackintosh, and his old protege 
Charles Grant, with the sons of the latter, Charles and 
Robert. The merchant, when Mr. Grant had quitted Cro- 
marty for London, was a powerful and active man, in the 
undiminished vigor of middle life. When he returned, after 
his long residence in India, he found him far advanced in 
years, indeed considerably tui'ned of seventy, and, in at 
least his bodily' powers, the mere wreck of his former self. 
And so afiected was the warm-hearted director by the 
contrast, that, on grasping his hand, he burst into tears. 
Mr. Forsyth himself, however, saw nothing to regret in 
the change. He was still enjoying much in his friends 
and his family ; for his affections remained warm as ever, 
and he had still enough of activity left to do much good. 
His judgment as a magistrate was still sound. He had 
more time, too, than before to devote to the concerns of 
his neighbors ; for, with the coming on of old age, he had 
been gradually abridging his business, retaining just enough 
to keep up his accustomed round of occuj^ation. Had a 
townsman died in any of the colonies, or in the army or 
navy, after saving some little money, it was the part of the 
merchant to recover it for the relatives of the deceased. 
Was the son or nephew of some of his humble neighbors 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 347 

trepanned by a recruiting party, — and there were strange 
arts used for the purpose fifty years ago, — the case was 
a difficult one indeed if Mr. Forsyth did not succeed in 
restoring him to his friends. He acted as a sort of general 
agent for the district, and in every instance acted without 
fee or reward. The respect in which he was held by the 
people was shown by the simple title by which he was on 
every occasion designated. They all spoke of him as "the 
Maister." " Is the Maister at home ? " or, " Can I see the 
Maister?" were the queries put to his servants by the 
townspeople perhaps ten times a day. Masters were be- 
coming somewhat common in the country at the time, and 
esquires not a great deal less so ; but the "Maister" was 
the designation of but one gentleman only, and the people 
who used the term never forgot what it meant. 

In all his many acts of kindness the merchant was well 
seconded by his wife, whose singularly compassionate dis- 
position accorded well with his own. She had among the 
more deserving poor a certain number to whom she dealt 
a regular weekly allowance, and who were known to the 
townspeople as " Mrs. Forsyth's pensioners." Besides, 
rarely did she suffer a day to pass without the performance 
of some act of charity in behalf of the others who were 
without the pale ; and when sickness or distress visited a 
poor family, she was sure to visit it too. Physicians were 
by no means so common in the country at the time as 
they have since become ; and, that she might be the more 
useful, Mrs. Forsyth, shortly after her marriage, had de- 
voted herself, like the ladies of an earlier period, to the 
study of medicine. Her excellent sense more than com- 
pensated for the irregularity of her training ; and there 
were few professors of the art of healing in the district 
whose prescriptions were more implicitly or more success- 



348 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

fully followed, or whose medicine-chest was oftener emp- 
tied and replenished. Mr. Forsyth was by no means a 
very wealthy man, — his hand had been ever too open for 
that, — and, besides, as money had been rapidly sinking in 
value during the whole course of his career as a trader, the 
gains of his earlier years had to be measured by a grow- 
ing and therefore depreciating standard. It is a comfort- 
able fact, however, that no man or family was ever ruined 
by doing good under the influence of right motives. Mr. 
Forsyth's little -fortune proved quite sufficient for all his 
charities and all his hospitality. It wore well, like the 
honest admiral's ; and the great bulk of it, though he has 
been nearly forty years dead, is still in the hands of his 
descendants. 



CHAPTER XI. 



Good and evil, we know, in the field of this world grow up 
together almost inseparably. — Milton. 

There are few things more interesting, in either biogra- 
phy or history, than those chance tide-marks, if I may so 
express myself, which show us the ebbs and flows of opin- 
ion, and how very sudden its growth when it sets in on 
the popular side. Mr. Forsyth was extensively engaged 
in business when the old hereditary jurisdictions were 
abolished ; not in compliance with any wish expressed b'y 
the people, but by an unsolicited act on the part of the 
government. Years passed, and he possessed entire all 
his earlier energies, when he witnessed from one of the 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. S49 

windows of his house in Cromarty the procession of a 
Liberty and Equality Club. The processionists were after- 
wards put down by the gentlemen of the county, and 
their leader, a young man of more wit than judgment, sent 
to the jail of Tain ; but the merchant took no part either 
for or against them. He merely remarked to one of his 
friends, that there is as certainly a despotism of the people 
as of their rulers, and that it is from the better and wiser, 
not from the lower and more unsettled order of minds, 
that society need look for whatever is suited to benefit or 
adorn it. He had heard of the Dundees and Dalziels of a 
former age, but he had heard also of its Jack Cades and 
Massaniellos ; and after outliving the atrocities of Robes- 
pierre and Danton, he found no reason to regard the 
tyranny of the many with any higher respect than that 
which he had all along entertained for the tyranny of the 
few. 

The conversation of Mr. Forsyth was rather solid than 
spai'kling. He was rather a wise than a witty man. Such, 
however, was the character of his remarks, that it was the 
shrewdest and best informed who listened to them with 
most attention and respect. His powers of observation 
and reflection were of no ordinary kind. His life, like old 
Nestor's, was extended through two whole generations 
and the greater part of the third, and this, too, in a cen- 
tury which witnessed more changes in the economy and 
character of the people of Scotland than any three centu- 
ries which had gone before. It may not be uninteresting 
to the reader rapidly to enumerate a few of the more im- 
portant of these, with their mixed good and evil. A brief 
summary may serve to show us that, while we should 
never despair of the improvement of society on the one 
hand, seeing how vast the difierence which obtains be- 
30 



350 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

tween the opposite states of barbarism and civilization, 
there is little wisdom in indulging, on the other, in dreams 
of a theoretical perfection, at which it is too probable our 
nature cannot arrive. Few great changes take place in 
the economy of a country without removing some of the 
older evils which oppressed it ; few also without intro- 
ducing into it evils that are new. 

It was in the latter days of Mr. Forsyth that the modern 
system of agriculture had begun to effect those changes in 
the appearance of the country and the character of the 
])ooplc by which the one has been so mightily imj)roved 
and the other so considerably lowered. The clumsy, 
ineflicient system which it supplanted was fraught with 
physical evil. There was an immense waste of labor. A 
large amount of the scanty produce of the country was 
consumed by a disproportionably numerous agricultural 
population ; and, from the inartificial methods pursued, 
the harvest, in every more backward season, was thrown 
f;ir into the winter ; and years of scarcity, amounting al- 
most to famine, inflicted from time to time their miseries 
on the poorer classes of the people. It was as impossible, 
too, in the nature of things, that the system should have 
remained imaltercd after science had introduced her in- 
numerable improvements into every other department of 
industry, as that night should continue in all its gloom in 
one of the central provinces of a country after the day had 
arisen in all the provinces which surrounded it. Nor 
could the landed interests have maintained their natural 
and proper place had the case been otherwise. There 
were but two alternatives, advance in the general rush of 
improvement, or a standing still to be trampled under 
foot. With the more enlightened mode of agriculture the 
large-farm system is naturally, perhaps inevitably, con- 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 351 

nected ; at least, in no branch of industry do we find the 
efficient adoption of scientific improvement dissevered from 
the extensive employment of capital. And it is this sys- 
tem which, within the last forty years, has so materially 
deteriorated the character of the people. It lias broken 
down the population of the agricultural districts into two 
extreme classes. It has annihilated the moral and reli- 
gious race of small farmers, who in the last age were so 
peculiarly the glory of Scotland, and of whom the Davie 
Deans of the novelist, and the Cotter of Burns, may be 
regarded as the fitting representatives ; and has given us 
mere gentlemen-farmers and farm-servants in their stead. 
The change was in every respect unavoidable ; and we 
can only regret that its physical good should be so inevi- 
tably accompanied by what must be regarded as its moral 
and political evil. 

It was during the long career of Mr. Forsyth, and in no 
small degree under his influence and example, that the 
various branches of trade still pursued in the north of 
Scotland were first originated. He witnessed the awaken- 
ing of the people from the indolent stupor in which ex- 
treme poverty and an acquiescent subjection to the higher 
classes were deemed unavoidable consequences of their 
condition, to a state of comparative comfort and indepen- 
dence. He saw what had been deemed the luxuries of his 
younger days, placed, by the introduction of habits of in- 
dustry, and a judicious division of labor, within the reach 
of almost the poorest. He saw, too, the first establishment 
of branch-banks in the north of Scotland, and the new life 
infused, through their influence, into every department of 
trade. They conferred a new ability of exertion on the 
people, by rendering their available capital equal to the 
resources of their trade, and gave to character a money- 



352 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

value which even the most profligate were compelled to 
recognize and respect. Each of these items of improve- 
ment, however, had its own peculiar drawback. Under 
the influence of the commercial spirit, neighbors have be- 
come less kind, and the people in general less hospitable. 
The comparative independence of the poorer classes has 
separated them more widely from the upper than they had 
ever been separated before ; and mutual jealousies and 
heartburnings mark, in consequence, the more ameliorated 
condition. The number of traders and shopkeepers has 
become disproportionably large ; and while a few succeed 
and make money, and a few more barely maintain their 
ground at an immense expense of care and exertion, there 
is a considerable portion of the class who have to struggle 
on for years, perhaps involved in a labyrinth of shifts and 
expedients that prove alike unfavorable to their own 
chai-acter and to the security of trade in general, and then 
end in insolvency at last. The large command of money, 
too, furnished at times by imprudent bank accommodation, 
has in some instances awakened a si^irit of speculation 
among the people, which seems but too much akin to that 
of the gambler, and which has materially lowered the tone 
of public morals in at least the creditor and debtor rela- 
tion. Bankruptcy, in consequence, is regarded with very 
different feelings in the present day from what it was sixty 
years ago. It has lost much of the old infamy which used 
to pass downwards from a man to his children, and is now 
too often looked upon as merely the natural close of an 
unlucky speculation, or, worse still, as a sort of speculation 
in itself. 

There is one branch of trade, in particular, which has 
been suffered to increase by far too much for the weal of 
the country. More than two thousand pounds are squan- 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 358 

dered yearly in the town of Cromarty in spirituous liquors 
alone, — a larger sum than that expended in tea, sugar, 
coffee, soap, and candles, put together. The evil is one of 
enormous magnitude, and unmixed in its character ; nor 
is there any part of the country, and, indeed, few families, 
in which its influence is not felt. And yet in some of the 
many causes which have led to it we may trace the work- 
ings of misdirected good, natural and political. A weak 
compassion on the part of those whose duty it is to grant 
or withhold the license without which intoxicating liquors 
cannot be sold, has more than quadrupled the necessary 
number of public houses. Has an honest man in the lower 
ranks proved unfortunate in business ; has a laborer or 
farm-servant of good character met with some accident 
which incapacitates him from pursuing his ordinary labors ; 
has a respectable, decent woman lost her husband, — all 
apply for the license as their last resource, and all are suc- 
cessful in their application. Each of their houses attracts 
its round of customers, who pass through the downward 
stages of a degradation to which the keepers themselves 
are equally exposed ; and after they have in this way irre- 
mediably injured the character of their neighbors, their 
own, in at least nine cases out of ten, at last gives way ; 
and the fatal house is shut up, to make way for another of 
the same class, which, after performing its work of mis- 
chief on a new circle, is to be shut up in turn. Another 
great cause of the intemperance of the age is connected 
with the clubs and societies of modern times. Many of 
these institutions are admirably suited to preserve a spirit 
of independence and self-reliance among the people ex- 
actly the reverse of that sordid spirit of pauperism which 
has so overlaid the energies of the sister kingdom ; and 
there are few of them which do not lead to a general 
30* 



354 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

knowledge of at least the simpler practices of business, 
and to that spread of intelligence which naturally arises 
from an intercourse of mind in which each has somewhat 
to impart and somewhat to acquire. But they lead also, 
in too many instances, to the formation of intemperate 
liabits among the leading members. There is the procession 
and the ball, with their necessary accompaniments; the 
meeting begun with business ends too often in convivial- 
ity; and there are few acquainted with such institutions 
who cannot assign to each its own train of victims. 

Another grand cause of this gigantic evil of intemper- 
ance, — a cause which fortunately exists no longer, save 
in its effects, — was of a political nature. On the break- 
ing out of the revolutionary war, almost every man in the 
kingdom fit to bear arms became a soldier. Every district 
had its embodied yeomanry or local militia, every town 
its volunteers. Boys who had just shot up to their full 
height were at once metamorphosed into heroes, and re- 
ceived their monthly pay ; and, under an exaggerated as- 
sumption of the military character, added to an unwonted 
command of pocket-money, there were habits of reckless 
intemperance formed by thousands and tens of thousands 
among the people, which have now held by them for more 
than a quarter of a century after the original cause has 
been removed, and which are passing downwards, through 
the influence of example, to add to the amount of crime 
and wretchedness in other generations. 

In no respect does the last age differ more from the 
present than in the amount of general intelligence pos- 
sessed by the people. It is not yet seventy years since 
Burke estimated the reading public of Great Britain and 
Ireland at about eighty thousand. There is a single 
Scotch periodical of the present day that finds as many 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 355 

purchasers, and on the lowest estimate twice as many 
readers, in Scotland alone. There is a total change, too, 
in the sources of popular intelligence. The press has sup- 
planted the church ; the newspaper and magazine occupy 
the place once occupied by the Bible and the Confession 
of Faith. Formerly, when there were comparatively few 
books and no periodicals in this part of the country, 
there was but one way in which a man could learn to 
think. His mind became the subject of some serious 
impression. He applied earnestly to his Bible and the 
standards of the church ; and in the contemplation of the 
most important of all concerns, his newly-awakened facul- 
ties received their first exercise. And hence the nature 
of his influence in the humble sphere in which he moved ; 
an influence which the constitution of his chiirch, from 
her admission of lay members to deliberate in her courts 
and to direct her discipline, tended powerfully to increase. 
It was not more intellectual than moral, nor moral than 
intellectual. He was respected not only as one of the 
best, but also as one of the most intelligent men in his 
parish, and impressed the tone of his own character on 
that of his contemporaries. Popular intelligence in the 
present age is less influential, and by far less respectable, 
in single individuals ; and, though of a humanizing ten- 
dency in general, its moral efiects are less decided. But 
it is all-potent in the mass of the people, and secures to 
them a political power which they never possessed before, 
and which must prove for the future their effectual guard 
against tyranny in the rulers ; unless, indeed, they should 
first by their own act break down those natural barriers 
which protect the various classes of society, by becom- 
ing tyrants themselves. There is a medium-point beyond 
which liberty becomes license, and license hastens to a 



356 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

despotism, which may, indeed, be exercised for a short 
time by the many, but whose inevitable tendency it is to 
pass into the hands of the few. 

A few of the causes which have tended to shut up to so 
great an extent the older sources of intelligence may be 
briefly enumerated. Some of them have originated within^ 
and some without the churcli. 

The benefits conferred on Scotland by the Presbyterian 
Church, during at least the two centuries which immedi- 
ately succeeded the Reformation, were incalculably great. 
Somewhat of despotism there might, nay, must have been, 
in the framework of our ecclesiastical institutions. The 
age was inevitably despotic. The church in which the 
Reformers had spent the earlier portion of their lives was 
essentially and constitutionally so. Be it remembered, too, 
that the principles of true toleration have been as much 
the discovery of later ages as those principles on which we 
construct our steam-engines. But whatever the frame- 
work of the constitutions of our chui-ch, the soul which 
animated them was essentially that spirit " wherewith 
Christ maketh his people free." Nay, their very intoler- 
ance was of a kind which delighted to arm its vassals with 
a power before which all tyranny, civil or ecclesiastical, 
must eventually be overthrown. It compelled them to 
quit the lower levels of our nature for the higher. It de- 
manded of them that they should be no longer immoral or 
illiterate. It enacted that the ignorant baron should send 
his children to school, that they, too, might not grow up 
in ignorance ; and provided that the children of the poor 
should be educated at the expense of the state. A strange 
despotism truly, which, by adding to the knowledge and 
the virtue of the people among whom it was established, 
gave them at once that taste and capacity for freedom 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 357 

without which men cannot be other than slaves, be the 
form of government nnder which they live what it may. 

Be it remembered too, that, whatever we of the present 
age may think of om- church, our fathers thought much of 
it. It was for two whole centuries the most popular of all 
establishments, and stamped its own character on that of 
the people. The law of patronage, as re-established by 
Oxford and Bolingbroke, first lowered its efficiency; not 
altogether so suddenly, but quite as surely, as these states- 
men had intended. From being a guide and leader of the 
people, it sunk, in no small degree, into a follower and de- 
pendant on the government and the aristocracy. The old 
Evangelical party dwindled into a minority, and in the ma- 
jority of its Church of Scotland became essentially unpopu- 
lar and uninfluential. More than one half our church stood 
on exactly the same ground which had been occupied by 
the curates of half a century before ; and the pike and 
musket were again employed in the settlement of ministers, 
who professed to preach the gospel of peace. A second 
change for the worse took place about fifty years ago, when 
the modern system of agriculture was first introduced, and 
the rage for expei'imental farming seemed to pervade all 
classes, — ministers of the church among the rest. Many 
of these took large farms, and engaged in the engrossing 
details of business. Some were successful and made money, 
some were unfortunate and became bankrupt. Years of 
scarcity came on ; the price of grain rose beyond all prece- 
dent ; and there were thousands among the suffering poor 
who could look no higher in the chain of causes than to the 
great farmers, clerical and lay, who were thriving on their 
miseries. It is a fact which stands in need of no comment, 
that the person in the north of Scotland who first raised 
the price of oatmeal to three pounds per boll was a clergy- 



358 ■ TALES AND SKETCHES. 

man of the established church. A third change which has 
militated against the clergy is connected with that general 
revolution in mannei's, dress, and modes of thinking which, 
during the last forty years, has transferred the great bulk 
of our middle classes from the highest place among the 
people to the lowest among the aristocracy ; the clergymen 
of our church, with their families, among the rest. And a 
fourth change, not less disastrous than even the worst of 
the others, may be traced to that recent extension of the 
political franchise which has had the effect of involving so 
many otherwise respectable ministers in the essentially 
irreligious turmoil of party. There is still, however, much 
of its original vigor in the Church of Scotland; a self-reform- 
ing energy which no radically corrupt church ever did or 
can possess ; and her late efforts in shaking herself loose 
from some of the evils which have long oppressed her give 
earnest that her career of usefulness is not hastening to its 
close. 

There is certainly much to employ the honest and en- 
lightened among her members in the present age. At no 
time did that gulf which separates the higher from the 
lower classes present so perilous a breadth, at no time did 
it threaten the commonwealth more ; and if it be not in 
the power of the equalizing influence of Christianity to 
bridge it over, there is no other power that can. It seems 
quite as certain that the spread of political power shall ac- 
company the spread of intelligence, as that the heat of the 
sun shall accompany its light. It is quite as idle to affirm 
that the case should be otherwise, and that this power 
should not be extended to the people, as to challenge the 
law of gravitation, or any of the other great laws which 
regulate the government of the universe. The progress 
of mind cannot be arrested ; the power which necessarily 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 359 

accompanies it cannot be lessened. Hence the imminent 
danger of those suspicions and dislikes that the opposite 
classes entertain each of the other, and which are in so 
many instances the effect of mistake and misconception. 
The classes are so divided that they never meet to com- 
pare notes, or to recognize in one another the same com- 
mon nature. In the space which separates them, the eaves- 
dropper and the tale-bearer find their proper province ; and 
thus there are heart-burnings produced, and jealousies 
fostered, which even in the present age destroy the better 
charities of society, and which, should the evil remain un- 
corrected, must inevitably produce still sadder effects in 
the future. Hence it is, too, that the mere malignancy of 
opposition has become so popular, and that noisy dema- 
gogues, whose sole merit consists in their hatred of the 
higher classes, receive so often the support of better men 
than themselves. It is truly wonderful how many defects, 
moral and intellectual, may be covered by what Dryden 
happily terms the " all-atoning name of patriot," — how 
creatures utterly broken in character and means, pitiful 
little tyrants in fields and families, the very stuff Out of 
which spies and informers are made, are supported and 
cheered on in their course of political agitation by sober- 
minded men, who would never once dream of entrusting 
them with their private conceras. "We may look for the 
cause in the perilous disunion of the upper and lower 
classes, and the widely-diffused bitterness of feeling which 
that disunion occasions. 



360 TALES AND SKETCHES. 



CHAPTER XII. 

Death is the crown of life : 
Were death denied, poor men would live in vain; 
Were death denied, to live would not be life. 

Young. 

Me. Forsyth was for about forty years an elder of the 
church, and never was the office more conscientiously or 
more consistently held. It was observed, however, that, 
though not less orthodox in his belief than any of his 
brother elders, and certainly not less scrupulously strict in 
his morals, he was much less severe in his judgments on 
offenders, and less ready in sanctioning, except in extreme 
cases, the employment of the sterner discipline of the church. 
On one occasion, when distributing the poor's funds, he set 
apart a few shillings for a poor creatui'e, of rather equivocal 
character, who had lately been visited by the displeasure 
of the session, and. who, though in wretched poverty, felt 
too much ashamed at the time to come forward to claim 
her customary allowance. 

" Hold, Mr. Forsyth," said one of the elders, a severe and 
rigid Presbyterian of the old school, — "hold ; the woman 
is a bad woman, and doesn't deserve that." 

" Ah," replied the merchant, in the very vein of Hamlet, 
" if we get barely according to our deservings, Donald, who 
of us all shall escape whipping? We shall just give the 
poor thing these few shillings which she does not deserve, 
in consideration of the much we ourselves enjoy which we 
deserve, I am afraid, nearly as little." 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 361 

" You are a wiser man than I am, Mr. Forsyth," said the 
elder, and sat down rebuked. 

No course in life so invariably smooth and prosperous in 
its tenor that the consolations of religion — even regard- 
ing religion as a matter of this world alone — can be well 
dispensed with. There are griefs which come to all ; and 
the more affectionate the heart, and the greater its capacity 
of happiness, the more keenly are these felt. Of nine chil- 
dren which his wife bore to him, William Forsyth survived 
six. Four died in childhood ; not so early, however, but 
that they had first engaged the afiections and awakened 
the hopes of their parents. A fifth reached the more ma- 
tui'e age at which the intellect begins to open, and the dis- 
positions to show what they are eventually to become, and 
then fell a victim to that insidious disease which so often 
holds out to the last its promises of recovery, and with 
which hope struggles so long and so painfully, to be over- 
borne by disappointment in the end. And a sixth, a young 
man of vigorous talent and kindly feelings, after obtaining 
a writership in India through the influence of his father's 
old protege, Mr. Charles Grant, fell a victim to the climate 
in his twentieth year. Mr. Forsyth bore his various sor- 
rows, not as a philosopher, but as a Christian ; not as if pos- 
sessed of strength enough in his own mind to bear up under 
each succeeding bereavement, but as one deriving comfort 
from conviction that the adorable Being who cared for both 
him and his children does not afilict his creatures willingly, 
and that the scene of existence which he saw closing upon 
them, and which was one day to close upon himself, is to 
be succeeded by another and a better scene, where God 
himself wipeth away all tears from all eyes. His only sui'- 
viving son, John, the last of four, left him, as he himself had 
left his father more than fifty years before, for a house of 
31 



362 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

business in London, which he afterwards quitted for India, 
on receiving an appointment there through the kindness 
of Mr. Grant. Mr. Forsyth accompanied him to the beach, 
"vvhere a boat manned by six fishermen was in waiting to 
carry him to a vessel in the offing. He knew too surely 
that he was parting from him for ever ; but he bore up 
under the conviction until the final adieu, and then, wholly 
overpowered by his feelings, he burst into tears. Nor was 
the young man less affected. It was interesting to see the 
effects of this scene on the rude boatmen. They had never 
seen " the Maister " so afiected before ; and as they bent 
them to their oars, there was not a dry eye among them. 

Age brought with it its various infirmities, and there 
were whole weeks in which Mr. Forsyth could no longer 
see his friends as usual ; nor even when in better health — 
in at least what must often pass for health at seventy-seven 
— could he quit his bedroom before the middle of the day. 
He now experienced how surely an affectionate disposition 
draws to itself, by a natural sympathy, the affection of oth- 
ers. His wife, who was still but in middle life, and his two 
surviving daughters, Catherine and Isabella, were unwea-r 
ried in their attentions to him, anticipating every wish, and 
securing to him every little comfort which his situation 
required, with that anxious ingenuity of affection so char- 
acteristic of the better order of female minds. His sight 
had so much failed him that he could no longer apply to 
his fiivorite authors as before ; but one of his daughters 
used to sit beside him and read a few pages at a time, for 
his mind was less capable than formerly of pursuing, unfa- 
tigued, long trains of thought. At no previous period, 
however, did he relish his books more. The state of gen- 
eral debility which marked his decline resembled that which 
characterizes the first stage of convalescence in lingering 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 863 

disorders. If his vigor of thought was lessened, his feel- 
ings of enjoyment seemed in proportion more exquisitely 
keen. His temper, always smooth and placid, had soft- 
ened with his advance in years, and every new act of atten- 
tion or kindness which he experienced seemed too much 
for his feelings. He was singularly grateful; grateful to 
his wife and daughters, and to the friends who from time 
to time came to sit beside his chair and communicated to 
him any little j^iece of good news ; above all, grateful to 
the great Being who had been caring for him all life long, 
and who now, amid the infirmities of old age, was still 
giving him so much to enjoy. In the prime of life, when 
his judgment was soundest and most discriminative, he had 
given the full assent of his vigorous understanding to those 
I^eculiar doctrines of Christianity on which its morals are 
founded. He had believed in Jesus Christ as the sole 
mediator between God and man ; and the truth which had 
received the sanction of his understanding then, served to 
occupy the whole of his affections now. Christ was all with 
him, and himself was nothing. The reader will perhaps 
pardon my embodying a few simple thoughts on this im- 
portant subject, which I offer with all the more diffidence 
that they have not come to me through the medium of any 
other mind. 

It will be found that all the false religions, of past or of 
present times, which have abused the credulity or flattered 
the judgments of men, may be divided into two grand 
classes, — the natural and the artificial. The latter are ex- 
clusively the work of the human reason, prompted by those 
uneradicable feelings of our nature which constitute man a 
religious creature. The religions of Socrates and Plato, of 
the old philosophers in general, with perhaps the exception 
of the sceptics, and a few others, — of Lord Herbert of 



364 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

Cherbury, Algernon Sidney, and Dr. Channing, of all the 
better Deists, of the Unitarians too, and the Socinians of 
modern times, — belong to this highly rational but unpopu- 
lar .and totally inefficient class. The God of these religions 
is a mere abstract idea; an incomprehensible essence of 
goodness, power, and wisdom. The understanding cannot 
conceive of him, except as a great First Cause, — as the in- 
comprehensible source and originator of all things ; and it 
is surely according to reason that he should be thus re- 
moved from that lower sphere of conception which even 
finite intelligences can occupy to the full. But in thus 
rendering him intangible to the understanding he is ren- 
dered intangible to the affections also. Who ever loved an 
abstract idea? or what sympathy can exist between human 
minds and an intelligent essence infinitely diffused ? And 
hence the cold and barren inefficiency of artificial religions. 
They want the vitality of life. They want the grand prin- 
ciple oi motive ; for they can lay no hold on those affections 
to which this prime mover in all human affairs can alone 
address itself. They may look well in a discourse or an 
essay, for, like all human inventions, they may be easily 
understood and rationally defended ; but they are totally 
unsuited to the nature and the wants of man. 

The natural religions are of an entirely different char- 
acter. They are wild and extravagant ; and the enlight- 
ened reason, when unbiassed by the influences of early 
prejudice, rejects them as monstrous and profane. But, 
unlike the others, they have a strong hold on human na- 
ture, and exert a powerful control over its hopes and its 
fears. Men may build up an artificial religion as they 
build up a house, and the same age may see it begun and 
completed. Natural religions, on the contrary, are, like 
the oak and the chestnut, the slow growth of centuries ; 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 365 

their first beginnings are lost in the uncertainty of the fab- 
ulous ages ; and every addition they receive is fitted to 
the credulity of the popular mind ere it can assimilate 
itself to the mass. The grand cause of their popularity, 
however, consists in the decidedly human character of 
their gods ; for it is according to the nature of man as a 
religious creature that he meets with an answering nature 
in Deity. The gods of the Greek and Roman were human 
beings like themselves, and influenced by a merely human 
favoritism. The devotion of their worshippers was but a 
mere reverential species of friendship ; and there are per- 
haps few men of warm imaginations who have become 
acquainted in early life with the ^neid of Virgil, or the 
Telemaque of Fenelon, who are not enabled to conceive, 
in part at least, how such a friendship could be enter- 
tained. The Scandinavian mythology, with the equally 
barbarous mythologies of the East, however different in 
other respects, agree in this main principle of popularity, 
the human character of their gods. The Virgin Mother 
and the many saints of the Romish Church, with its tangi- 
bilities of pictures and images, form an indispensable com- 
pensation for its lack of the evangelical principle ; and it 
is undoubtedly to the well-defined and easily-conceived 
character of Mohammed that Allah owes the homage of 
the unreckoned millions of the East. 

Now, it is according to reason and analogy that the true 
religion should be formed, if I may so express myself, on 
a popular principle ; that it should be adapted, with all the 
fitness which constitutes the argument of design, to that 
human nature which must be regarded as the production 
of the common author of both. It is indispensable that 
the religion which God reveals should be suited to the hu- 
man nature which God has made'. Artificial religions, with 
31* 



366 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

all their minute rationalities, are not suited to it at all, and 
therefore take no hold on the popular mind ; natural reli- 
gions, with all their immense popularity, are not suited to 
improve it. It is Christianity alone which unites the pop- 
ularity of the one class with the rationality, and more than 
the purity, of the other ; that gives to the Deity, as man, 
his strong hold on the human affections, and restores to 
him, in his abstract character as the father of all, the 
homage of the understandinsf. 

The change which must come to all was fast coming on 
William Forsyth. There was a gradual sinking of his 
powers, bodily and intellectual ; a thorough prostration of 
strength and energy ; and yet, amid the general wreck of 
the man, the affections remained entire and unbroken ; 
and the idea that the present scene is to be succeeded by 
another was continually present with him. Weeks passed 
in which he could no longer quit his bed. On the day he 
died, however, he expressed a wish to be brought to a 
chair which stood fronting a window, and the wish was 
complied with. The window commands a full view of 
the main street of the place ; but though his face was 
turned in that direction, his attendants could not suppose 
that he took note any longer of the objects before him ; 
the eyes were open, but the sense seemed shut. The case, 
however, was otherwise. A poor old woman passed by, 
and the dying man recognized her at once. "Ah, yonder," 
he said, addressing one of his daughters who stood by him, 
"is poor old Widow Watson, whom I have not seen now 
for many weeks. Take a shilling for her out of ray purse, 
and. tell her it is the last she will ever get from me." And 
so it was ; and such was the closing act of a long and 
singularly useful life ; for his death, unaccompanied appar- 
ently by aught of suffering, took place in the course of the 



THE SCOTCH MERCHANT. 367 

evening, only a few hours after. He had completed his 
seventy-eighth year. All the men of the place attended 
his funeral, and many from the neighboring countiy ; 
and there were few among the assembled hundreds who 
crowded round his grave to catch a last glimpse of the 
coffin, who did not feel that they had lost a friend. He 
was one of nature's noblemen ; and the sincere homage 
of the better feelings is an honor reserved exclusively to 
the order to which he belonged. 

Mrs. Forsyth survived her husband for eight years. 
And after living in the continued exercise of similar vir- 
tues, she died in the full hope of the same blessed immor- 
tality, leaving all who knew her to regret her loss, though 
it was the poor that mourned her most. Their three sur- 
viving children proved themselves the worthy descendants 
of such parents. There is a time coming when fimilies of 
twenty descents may be regarded as less noble, and as 
possessing in a much less degree the advantages of birth ; 
for, partly, it would seem, through that often marked 
though inexplicable effect of the organization of matter 
on the faculties of mind, which transmits the same charac- 
ter in the same line from generation to generation, and 
partly, doubtless, from the influence of early example, 
they all inherited in no slight or equivocal degree the vir- 
tues of their father and mother. A general massiveness 
and force of intellect, with a nice and unbending rectitude 
of principle, and great benevolence of disposition, were 
the more marked characteristics. Catherine, the eldest 
of the three, was married in 1801 to her cousin Isaac For- 
syth, banker, Elgin, the brother and biographer of the 
well-known toiirist ; and, after enjoying in a singular de- 
gree the affection of her husband and family, and the 
respect of a wide circle of acquaintance, she died in the 



868 TALES AND SKETCHES. 

autumn of 1826, in her fifty-seventh year. Isabella contin- 
ued to reside in her father's house at Cromarty, which 
maintained in no small degree its former character, and 
there cannot well be higher praise. None of Mrs. Forsyth's 
old pensioners were suffered to want by her daughter; 
and as they dropped off, one by one, their places were sup- 
plied by others. She was the effective and active patron- 
ess, too, of every scheme of benevolence originated in the 
place, whether for the benefit of the poor or of the young. 
She was married in 1811 to Cajjtain Alexander M'Kenzie, 
R. M., of the Scatwell family, and died in the spring of 
1838, in her sixty-eighth year, bequeathing by will three 
hundred pounds to be laid out at interest for the behalf 
of three poor widows of the place. John, the youngest 
of the family, quitted his father's house for India, as has 
been already related, in 1792. He rose by the usual steps 
of promotion as resident at various stations, became a 
senior mei'chant, and was appointed to the important 
charge of keeper of the Company's warehouse at Calcutta, 
with the near jDrospect of being advanced to the Board of 
Trade. His long residence in India, however, had been 
gradually undermining a constitution originally vigorous, 
and he fell a victim to the climate in 1823, in the forty- 
fifth year of his age. He had married an English lady 
in Calcutta, Miss Mary Ann Farmer, a few years before, 
and had an only daughter by her, Mary Elizabeth Forsyth, 
who now inherits her grandfather's property in Cromarty, 
His character was that of the family. For the last fifteen 
years of his life he regularly remitted fifty pounds annually 
for the poor of Cromarty, and left them a thousand pounds 
at his death. The family bnrying-ground fronts the parish 
church. It contains a simple tablet of Portland stone, 
surmounted by a vase; of white marble, and bearing the 



THE SCOTCH MEKCHANT. 369 

following epitaph, whose rare merit it is to be at once 
highly eulogistic and strictly true : — 

SSUIiant J^orsjit^, (Ssquirc, 

DIED 

the 30th January, 1800, in the 78th year of his age; 

A Man loved for his benevolence, 

honored for his integrity, and 

revered for his piety. 

He was religious without gloom; 

cheerful without levity; 

bountiful without ostentation 

Rigid in the discharge of his own duties, he was 

charitable and lenient in his judgment of others. 

His kindness and hospitality were unbounded; 

and in him the Destitute found a Friend, 

the Oppressed a Protector. 



On the 7th August, 1808, aged sixty-six, died 

His beloved Wife, 

in obedience to whose last desire 

this Tablet is inscribed to his Memory, 

which she ever cherished with tender affection, 

and adorned by the practice of similar virtues. 

With characteristic humility 

she wished that merel}' her Death should be recorded 

on this stone ; 

and to those who knew her no other memorial was wanting, 

nor is it necessary, even if it were possible, 

to delineate to the passing stranger 

the beauty of her deportment, 

the strength of her understanding, 

and the beni^inity of her heart; 

but rather 

to admonish him, from such bright examples, 

that the paths of godliness and virtue lead 

to happiness on earth, 
and the assurance of joys beyond the grave. 



Of their children, they survived Patrick, who died at the age of 20 in the 

East Indies; and James, Isabella, Margaret, William, and Elizabeth, 

who, with their parents, were buried in this place. 



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A TREATISE ON" THE COMPARA'^iVE AISTATOMY OF THE 
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CHAMBERS' CYCLOPEDIA OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. A 

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GUYOT'S WORKS. VALUABLE MAPS. 

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(31) 



VALUABLE TEXT-J300KS. 

THE LSGTUBES OF SIB WIIiLIAM HAMILTON, BAIlT.,lal» 

Proiessdi- ot Logic and Metaphysics, University of Kdinburgh; embracing the Metaphtsi. 
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U Logical Lectures {in preparation). 

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(32) 



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This masterly production, which has excited so much interest in this country and in Europe, 
will now have an increased attraction in the addition of the Supplement, in which the author's 
reviewers are triumphantly reviewed. 

THE CAMEL ; His Organization, Habits, and Uses, considered with reference to his 
introduction into the United States. By George P. Marsh, late U. S. Minister at Con- 
stantinople. 12mo, cloth, 63 cts. 

This book treats of a subject of prcat interest, especially at the present time. It furnishes a more 
»omplete and reliable account of the Camel than any other in the lanjjuage ; indeed, it is believed 
that there is no other. It is the result of lonp study, extensive research, and much personal obser- 
rntion, on the part of the author, and it has been prepared with special reference to the experiment 
of domesticating the Camel in this countrj', now going on under the auspices of the United States 
povemment. It is written in a style worthy of the distinguished author's reputation for great learn- 
mg and ^e echolarship. (36) 



VALUABLE WOEKS 



PUBLISHED BY 



GOULD AND LINCOLN, 

59 WASHINGTON STEEET, BOSTON. 



THE CHmSTIAN" LIFE ; Social and Inditidual. By Peter Batme, M. A. 

12ino, cloth, $1.25. 

There is but one voice respecting this extraordinary book, — men of all denominations, in all 
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MODERN ATHEISM; Under its forms of Pantheism, Materialism, Secularism, 
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" The work is one of the most readable and solid which we have ever perused." — Hugh Miller 
in tlie Witness. 

NEW ENG-LAND THEOCKACY. From the German of tlhden's History of 
the Congregationalists of New England, with an Introduction by Neander. By Mrs. 
II. C. CoNANT, author of " The English Bible," etc. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 

A work of rare ability and interest, presenting the early religious and ecclesiastical history of 
New England, from authentic sources, with singular impartiality. The author evidently aimed 
throughout to do exact justice to the dominant party, aud all their opponents of every name. Tha 
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and most important contribution to Puritan History. 

THE MISSION OF THE COMFOBTEIl; with copious Notes. By Julius 
Charles Hare. 'With the Notes translated for the American Edition. 12mo, clotli, 
$1.25. 

THE BETTER LAND ; or. The Believer's Journey and Future Home. By the 
Rev. A. C. Tuo-MPSON. 12mo, cloth, 85 cts. 

A most charming and instructive book for all now journeying to the " Better Land." 

THE EVENING OF LIFE ; or, Light and Comfort amidst the Shadows of De- 
clining Years. By Rev. Jeremiah Chaplin, D. D. A new Revised, and much en- 
larged edition. With an elegant Frontispiece on Steel. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 

JS^T A most charming and appropriate work for the aged, — large type and open page. An 
admirable " Gift" for the child to present the parent. 

THE STATE OF THE IMPENITENT DEAD. By Alvah Hoybt, 
D. D., Prof, of Christian Theology in Newton Theol. Inst. 16mo, cloth, 50 cts. 

A WREATH AROUND THE CROSS ; or, Scripture Truths Hlustrated. 
By the Rev. A. Morton Brown, D. D. Recommendatory Preface, by John Angell 
James. With a beautiful Frontispiece. 16mo, cloth, 60 cts. 

" ' Christ, and Him crucified ' Is presented in a new, striking, and matter-of-fact light. The style 
la simple, without being puerile, and the reasoning is of that truthful, persuasive kind that 'comui 
t-oiri the heart, and reaches the heart.'"— X. Y. Observer. (^\ ^^ 



WORKS FOR CHURCH MEMBERS. 

THE CHRISTIAN'S DAILY TREASURY; a Religious Exercise for eTery 
Diiy in the Year. By Rev. E. Temple. A new and improved edition. 12mo, cloth, 
$1.00. 

C3~ A work for every Christian. It is indeed a " Treasury " of good things. 

THE SCHOOIi OF CHRIST ; or, Christianity Viewed in its Leading Aspects, 
lly the Kev. A. K. L. Foote, author of "Incidents in the Life of our Saviour," etc. 
Ifluio, cloth, 50 cts. 

THE CHRISTIAN PASTOR ; His Work and the Needful Preparation. Ey 
Alvah Hovet, D. D., Prof, of Theolofry in the Newton Theol. Inst. 16mo, pp. 60; 
flexible cloth, 25 cents ; paper covers, 12 cents. 

APOLLO S; or, Directions to Persons just commencing a Religious Life. 32mo, paper 
covers, chtap, for distribution, per hundred, $6.00. 

THE HARVEST AND THE REAPERS. Home Work for All, and how to 
do it. By Rev. IIarvev Newcomb. 16mo, cloth, G3 cts. 

This work is dedicated to the converts of 1858. It shows what may be done, by showing what hu 
been done. It shows how much there is now to be done at home. It shows how to do it. Every 
man interested in the work of saving men, every professing Christian, will find this work to be for 
him. 

THE CHURCH-MEMBER'S MANUAL of Ecclesiasticnl Principles, Voo 
triues, and Discipline. By Rev. William Crowell, D. D. Introduction by H. J. Rip- 
let, D. D. Second edition, revised and improved. 12mo, cloth, 75 cts. 

THE CHURCH-MEMBER'S HAND-BOOK; a Plain Guide to the Doc- 
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ISmo, cloth, 38 cts. 

THE CHURCH-MEMBER'S GUIDE. By the Rev. John A. James. Edited 
liy J. 0. CuocLES, D. D. New edition. With Introductory Essay, by Rev. Hubbard 
WiNSLOW. Cloth, 33 cts. 

" The spontaneous effiision of our heart, on laying the book down, was ; ' May every church- 
ni "mbur in our land possess this book, and be blessed with all the happiness which conformity to 
its evangelical sentiments and directions is calculated to confer.' " — Christian Secretary. 

THE CHURCH IN EARNEST. By Rev. John A. James. 18mo, cloth, 40 cts. 

" Its arsruments and appeals are well adapted to prompt to action, and the times demand such s 
book. We trust it will be universally read." — iV; Y. Observer. 

" Those who have the means should purchase a number of copies of this work, and lend them 
to church-members, and keep them in circulation till they are worn out .' " — Mot/iers' Assistant. 

CHRISTIAN PROGRESS. A Sequel to the Anxious Inquirer. By JonK 
Angell James. 18mo, cloth, 31 cts. 

ja3~ One of the best and most useful works of this popular author. 

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" So eminently is it adapted to do pood, that wc feel no surprise that it should make one of th» 
publishers' excellent publications. It exhibits the whole subject of growth in grace with great 
limplicity and clearness." — Puritan Recorder. (1 2^ 



VALUABLE NEW WOEKS. 

GOD KEVEAIiED IN NATUIIE AND IN CHKIST ; including • 
llefatiuiju ot the Developmeat Theory coutained in the " Vestiges of the Natural History 
of Creation." By Kev. James B. Wajlkek, author of "The Vhilosofhy off luii Plan 
Of Salvation." 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 

PHILOSOPHY OF THE PLAN OP SALVATION; a Book for the 
Times. By au AiiiiKicAN Citizen. \Tith au Introductory Essay by Calvin E. Stuwb, 
D. 1). (CrNew improved and enlarged edition, liimo, cloth, 75 cts. 

YAHVEH CHRIST ; or, The Memorial Name. By Alexander MacAVhorter. 
With an Introiluctory Letter by Nathaniel W. Taylor, D. D., Bwight Professor in Yalo 
Theol. Sem. 16mu, cloth, 60 cts. 

SALVATION BY CHRIST. A Series of Discourses on some of the most Ira. 
portaut Doctrines of the Gospel. By Francis Wavland, D. D. 12mo, cloth, $1 00 ; 
cloth, gilt, $1.50. 

Contents. — Theoreticnl Atheism. — Practical Atheism. — The Moral Character of Man. — 
The Fall of Man. — Justification by AVorka Impossible. — Preparation for the Advent. — "Work of 
the Messiah. — Justification by Faith. — Conversion. — Imitators of God.— Grieving the Spirit.— 
A Day in the Life of Jesus. — The Benevolence of the Gospel. — The Fall of Peter. — Character 
of Balaam. — Veracity. — The Church of ChrfSt. — The Unity of the Church. — Duty of Obedi- 
ence to the Civil Magistrate (three Sermons). 

THE GREAT DAY OP ATONEMENT; or, Meditations and Prayers on 
the Last Twenty-four Hours of the Sufferings and Death of Our Lord and Saviour Jesua 
Christ. Translated from the .German of Charlotte Elizabeth Nebeun. Edited by 
Mrs. Colin Mackenzie. Elegantly printed and bound. 16mo, cloth, 75 cts. 

THE EXTENT OP THE ATONEMENT IN ITS RELATION, 
TO GOD AND THE UNIVERSE. By Rev. Thomas W. Jenkyn, D. D., 
late President of Coward College, London. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 

This work was thoroughly revised by the author not long before his death, exclusively for the 
present publishers. It has long been a standard work, and without doubt presents the most com- 
plete discussion of the subject in the language. 

" We consider this volume as setting the long and fiercely agitated question as to the extent of 
the Atonement completely at rest. Posterity will thank the author till the latest ages for his illu*. 
trious argument." — Aew York Evangelist. 

THE SUPPERING SAVIOUR ; or, Meditations on the Last Days of Christ. 
By Fred. W. Krcmaiacher, D. D., author of " Elijah the Tishbite." 12mo, cloth, $1.25. 

" The narrative is given with thrilling vividness, and pathos, and beauty. Marking, as we prov 
teeded, several passages for quotation, we found them in the end so numerous, that we must refer 
the reader to the work itself."— yews of the Churches (ScoltisJi). 

THE IMITATION OP CHRIST. By Thomas a Kempis. With an Intro, 
ductory Essay, by Tuhmas CnAL.MER.5, D. D. Edited by Howard Malcom, D. D. A. 
new edition, with a Life of Tiio.ma.s a Kkmpis, by Dr. C. Ullmann, author of "Re- 
formers before the Reformation." 12mo, cloth, 85 cts. 

This may safely be pronounced the best Protestant edition extant of this ancient and celebrated 
work. It is reprinted from Payne's edition, collated with an ancient Latin copy. The peculiar 
fbature of this new edition is the improved page, the elegant, large, clear type, and the New Lirm 
OF A KsHPis, by Dr. L'Unmnu. (13) 



VALUABLE EIOGEAPHIES. 

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY AND CORRESPONDENCE 
OJb^ THE LATE AMOS LAWRENCE. AViUi a brief account of soma 
Incidents in his Life. Kditetl by liis sou, Wm. K. Lawbesce, H. D. With elegant Por- 
traits of Amos and Abbott Lawrence, an Engraving of their Birthplace, an Autograph 
page of Handwriting, and a copious Index. One large octavo volume, cloth, $1.50 ; royal 
12mo, cloth, $1.00 

A MEMOIR OP THE LIFE AND TIMES OF ISAAC BACKUS. 

By Alvah Hovbt, Professor of Ecclesiastical History iu Newtou Theological Institution. 
12mo, cloth, $1.25. 

This work gives an account of a remarkable man, and of a remarkable movcmert in the mlddls 
of the last century, resulting in the formation of what were called the " Separate " Churches. It 
eupplics an important deficiency in the history of JiewEngland affairs. For every Baptist, espe- 
cially, it is a necessary book. 

LIFE OF JAMES MONTGOMERY. By Mrs. H. C. Knight, author of 
"Lady Huntington and her i'rieiids," i^c. Likeness and elegant Illustrated Title-Page 
on steel. 12mo, cloth, $1.25. 

This is an original biography, prepared from the abundant but ill-digested materials contained 
in the seven octavo volumes of the London edition. Thi- Christian public in America will wel- 
come such a memoir of a poet whose hymns and sacred melodies have been the delight of every 
household. 

MEMOTIf OF ROGER "WILLIAMS, F 'under of the State of Rhode Island. 
By Prof. WiLUAM Gam.mell, A. M. IGmo, cloth, 7a cts. 

PHILIP DODDRIDGE. His life and Labors. By John Stoughto.v, D. D. With 
an Introducto'.y Chapter, by Rev. Jam>':s G. Miall, Author of "Footsteps of our Fore- 
fathers," &.C. Wi'h beautiful Il!ust;'ate"l Title-pagC aad Frontispiece. 16mo, cloth, 60 
cents. 

THE LIFE ANP COHRESPOTTDENCE CT JOHN FOSTER. 

Eilited by J. E. RvLANi, with notices of Mr. Yosteb, a^ a Pr-^acher and a Companion. 
By John Sheppakd. A .new edition, two Volwmes iu one, 700 pifges. 12mo, cloth, $1.25. 

■ "In simplicity of language, in majesty of concei'tion, his wi'tingS a"e unmatched." — ^'orth 
JSHtish Review. 

THE LIFE OF GODFREY WILLIATV^ VON LEIBNITZ. By Jons 

M. Mackie, Esq. On the basis of the German Wo.'k cf Dr. G. E. GtHkAtER. 16mo, cloth, 
75 cts 

" It merits the special notice of all who are interected in t'c business of cdutatioli, ^nd deserves 
a place by the side of Brewster's Life of Newton, \a all the liVaries of our schools, iV;aden?'"«, and 
literary institutions.*' — Watchman unct Hcjf'ictor, 

MEMORIES OF A GRANDMOTHER. By a Lady of Massachusetts. 

16mo, cloth, 50 cts. 

V3r " My path lies in a valley, which T have soiifrht to ndom with flowers. Shadows from the 
hills cover it ; but I make my own sunshine." — AiMoi-'s Pre/ace. 

THE TEACHER'S LAST LESSON. A Memoir of JIartha Whitivo, late 
of the Charlestown Female Seminary, with Rt'minijcences and Suggestive Reflections. 
By Cathahine N. Badger, an A-ssnciate Teacher. With a Portrait, and an Engraving 
cf the Seminary. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 

The subject of this Memoir was, for a quarter of a century, at the head of one of the most eels- 
fcrated female seminaries in the country. During that period she educated more than three thow 
•anii young ladies, She was a kindred spirit to Mary Lyon, (11j 



WOEKS FOE BIBLE STUDENTS. 

KITTO'S POPULAR CYCLOPAEDIA OF BIBLICAL LITEBA 

TJ±IE. Condensed from the larger woi-k. By tlie Author, Jobm Kitto, D. D. As- 
Eioted by Jamks Tavlok, D. D., of Glasgow. With over five hundred Illustrations. One 
volume, octavo, 812 pp. Cloth, $3.00 ; sheep, $3.50; cloth, gilt, $4.00 ; half calf, $4.00. 

A Dictionary of the Bible. Serving, also, aa a Commentary, embodying the products of 
tlic best and most recent researches in biblical literature in which the scholars of Europe and 
America have been engaged. The work, the result of immense labor and research, and enriched 
by tlie contributions of writers of distinguished eminence in the various departments of sacred liter" 
ature, has been, i)y universal couisent, prouounced the best work of its class extant, and the one best 
suited to tlie advanced knowledge of the present day in all the studies connected with theological 
BCience. It ia not only intended for ministers and theological students, but it is also particularly 
adapted to parents. Sabbath-school teachers, and the great body of the religious public. 



THE HISTORY OF PALESTINE, fi-om the Patriarchal Age to the Present 
Time ; with Chapters on the Geography and Natural History of the Country, the Cus- 
toms and Institutions of the Hebrews. By John Kitto, D. D. With upwards of two 

hundred Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, $1.25. 

IS3~ A work admirably adapted to the Family, the Sabbath, and the week-day School Library. 

ANALYTICAL CONCORDAKTCE TO THE HOLY SCRIP- 

.TURES ; or, the Bible presented under Distinct and Classified Heads or Topics. By 
Ji.iHN Eadie, D. D., LL. D., Author of " Bibhcal Cyclopasdia," "Ecclesiastical Cyclop;e- 
di;v," " Dictionary of the Bible," etc. One volume, octavo, 840 pp. Cloth, $3.00 ; sheep, 
$3.50 i cloth, gilt, $4.00 ; half Turkey morocco, $4.00. 

The object of this Concordance is to present the Scriptvres entire, under certain classiiled 
and exhaustive heads. It differs from an ordinary Concordance, in that its arrangement depends 
not on woKus, but on subjects, and the verses are printed in fvU. Its plan docs not bring it at. 
all into competition with such limited works as those of Gaston and Warden ; for they select doc- 
trinal topics principally, and do not profess to comprehend as this THE ENTIRE Bible. The work 
also contains a Synoptical Table of Contents of the whole work, presenting in brief a system of 
biblical antiquities and theology, with a very copious and accurate index. 

The value of this work to ministers and Sabbath-school teachers can hardly be over-estimated i 
and it needs only to be examined, to secure the approval and patronage of every Bible student. 

CRITDEN'S CONDElSrSED COIsTCORDAWCE. A Complete Concord. 
ance to the Holy Scriptures. By Alexander Cruden. Revised and Re-edited by the 
Rev. David King, LL. P. Octavo, cloth backs, $1.25 ; sheep, $1.50. 

Tlie condensation of the qi-otations of Scripture, arranged under the most obvious heads, whUe 
it diminishes the bulk of the work, greall;/ facilitates the finding of any required passage. 

" We have in this edition of Cruden the lest made better. That is, the present is better adapted 
to the purposes of a Concordance, by the erasure of superfluous references, the omission of unne- 
cessary explanations, and the contraction of quotations, &c. It is better as a manual, and is bcttet 
adapted by its price to the means of many who need and ought to possess such a work, than the 
former large and expensive edition." — /'«n««« Recorder. 

A COMMENTARY ON THE ORIGINAL TEXT OP THE ACTS 
O ? THE A POSTLES. By Horatio B. Hackett, D. D., Prof, of Biblical Liter- 
ature and Interjiretation, in the Newton Theol. Inst. [C^A new, revised, and enlarged 
edition. Royal octavo, cloth, $2.25. 

tSr This most important and very popular work has been thoroughly revised ; large portlonj 
tnlircly re-written, with the addition of more than one htmdred parjrs of new matter; the result of 
bifc author's continued, laborious investigations and travels, since the publication of the first edition, 

'32} 



GOULD AND LINCOLN, 

69 v;ashingto!t cteeet, boston, 

Would call particular attention to the following valuable works described 
in their Catalogue of Publications, viz. : 

Hugh Miller's Works. 

Bayne's Works. Walker's Works. Miall's Works. Bungener's Worlt 

Aannal of Scientific Discovery. Knight's Knowledge is Power. 

Krummaehor's Suffering Saviour, 

Banvard's American Histories. The Aimwell Stories. 

Neweomb's Works. Tweedie's Works. Chambers's Works. Harris' Works. 

Kitto's Cyclopaedia of Biblical Literature. 

Mrs. Knight's Life of Montgomery. Kitto's History of Palestine. 

Whewell's Work. Wayland's Works. Agassiz's Works. 



*V 



k ■fjitimony olRo^g^ "^^ —uama 

\Anii ofSoient D,,'.„„W ^^^^ MUlor. 
^\ Earth -vnd Mod ' « ^^""^ ^- '"'eHs. 

***« Cyclop cfC'>g.Litcrat.,V\\ Robert rh'; 

,ncoid of the Bible, % £^^ ^^^ 
>^,,,,,Co.c. Of Bible. %"^-^-^-- 
, Moral ScicoM, m John U«rrti 

\lho Great Te«her;_ \\ Pefr Ba^.,. 



Winiams' Works. Guyot's Works. 

Thompson's Better Land. Kimball's Heaven. Valuable Works on Missions. 

Haven's Mental Philosophy. Buchanan's Modern Atheism. 

Cruden's Condensed Concordance. Eadie's Analytical Concordance^ 

The Psalmist : a Collection of Hymns. 

Valuable School Books. Works for Sabbath Schools. 

Memoir of Amos Lawrence. 

Poetical Works of Milton, Cowper, Scott. Elegant Miniature Volumes. 

Arvine's Cyclopaedia of Anecdotes. 

Ripley's Notes on Gospels, Acts, and Eomans. 

Spraeue's European Celebrities. Marsh's Camel and the Halllg. 

Koget's Thesaurus of English Words. 

Hackett's Notes on Acts. M'Whorter's Yahveh Christ. 

Siebold and Stannius's Comparative Anatomy. Marcou's Geological Map, IT. 8L 

Keligious and Miscellaneous Works. 

Works in the various Departments of Literature, Science and Art. 



